Along this narrow red thread
spun out to this night,
I tip toe claustrophobic,
as though the widening black
might bury me any second.
I am a tourist in the dark expanse.
I have memorized all I once forgot
of a landscape where furniture waits along walls,
where the roaming animals sleep and moan out
upon my clumsy toe-led touch.
This is the house I grew up in
and I have not been back for three years, almost four.
There are no more animals left to be hunted.
They have all gone underground.
And bookcases filled by my mother’s research—
with dates of birth and dates of death;
These solid paper structures have migrated too.
But I am quite certain
that if I woke upon my teenage bed,
I would find that narrow red thread—
looped around my ring finger;
And follow it’s needle back— like an acrobat—
to spool the straight curving line
my father’s digital alarm clock.