There is a door behind that ceiling-fan,
whitewashed frame for washed-up memories,
your mistakes melt from the pages of your diaries.
Draw a line and bend it and sit inside the enclosure.
Clap with chaos and eat popcorn while next door homicide lasts.
Change channels till you find out you don’t know what to find.
What’s behind that door?
Maybe a chance, to rearrange the bookshelf.
To scrap-off the paint.
To walk backwards.