Whistle

My life masquerades as a melee. Search for the I of the storm.
Batton down the hatchs and take the taser to task. I am electricity in the guise of calm.

I step outside it.
Blow whistles.
Practice every gesture
for time out.

Stop. For a moment.
For a night.

Those revelations of defensiveness. The discomfort of another eye. Caught too long.
I always thought it was a physiological reaction.
Now I suspect my dyslexia plays tricks with concepts as well.