he consented to be made into a hologram

he consented to be flattened between two sheets of film

to be tweaked into a third dimension


he stashed himself in the attic

he was lodged between the child-seat and the Amstrad

he pretended to forget about himself as the years sailed by


he needed to climb up the ladder at Christmas

he knew his wife didn’t like heights; didn’t like spiders

and somewhere up there was an angel for the top of the tree


he approached from the side, from the corner

he knew all the openings where light could leak in

and where he’d meet his younger face staring at him full on


 wrecked house

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