After the magician's last trick (he escapes a home imploding), I'm sent to bed. Still, I hear it all—low mutterings, live studio audiences, the fridge's lips sucking open and shut, the dactyl taps of toothbrush to sink.
Then the house dies down, hushed to nothing.
Now sleep, this quiet asks, a hypnotist, as if sleep is a safe place, not a safe to break free from, a lock box not known as coffin or tomb. This bed, to me, is a tacked-shut barrel, and I'm swept to the falls. So teach me an escapologist's calm, magician, handcuffed and seconds to tumbling: Do you dislocate? Do you clamber? Do you cry? How do I walk through this wall-like night?