Margen
The house looks through a single eye, round and cold as a fish's.
Through it, the landing is a brief planet: the neighbour walks by, curved at the poles, the bulb hangs like a sun on duty, the staircase sinks into its spiral the way water sinks into a drain.
Nothing that happens out there is flat: everything arrives bent by the lens, everything fits whole inside the circle of glass.
Leaving, I close the door slowly and stand a moment on the mat, on the fishes' side: now I am the thing that curves, I am what the door, with its eye of water, watches go by.