Water in the glass silently films over with green duckweed.
The tabletop tilts by a quarter of a degree –
the porcelain cup slides toward the edge.
A knife glides into bread: beneath the crust – a flawless void.
A coin goes blind, loses its relief.
A needle passes imperceptibly through its own eye.
Grains of salt fuse into a single transparent crystal.
Fingers search for the loop on the collar – there a blind scar.
The cloth breaks: the boundary between soft and hard has vanished.
From the warm radiator comes the reek of raw earth.
The wallpaper in the corner has peeled away and breathes in measured rhythm.
From inside the wardrobe comes a faint, persistent knocking.
The floor lamp stands in its old place, but the light falls the other way – into the dark.
A long crack on the ceiling – only yesterday it was crawling along the floor.
The parquet sags deeper than the iron beams allow.
The door handle is hot to the touch, alive.
The stream from the tap holds its own weight,
frozen into a single crystal rod.
Dust motes hover where the air has forgotten about falling.
Ash lies in an even little pile, though the cigarette has not yet been lit.
On the apple, a deep bite mark, though the teeth have only just touched its gloss.
The mirror lags behind by a moment:
I look straight ahead, and the reflection only now turns its head.
The kitchen clock whittles the minutes into heavy shavings.
The silhouettes of the furniture lengthen toward the window.
The refrigerator exhales stale Freon, though it has long been unplugged.
A silver spoon clinks by itself.
In the drawer – massive tailor’s shears that no one bought.
On the back of the chair hangs another coat.
Mine, but never once worn.
On the wrist, two pulses. The second is half a beat ahead of the first,
as though someone inside is hurrying.
I breathe onto the windowpane – it remains transparent.
The palm holds an empty cup it did not pick up.
The hair hangs to the right, though the head is tilted left.
The fingers count and count, having forgotten how many there should be.
The shadow on the wall bends at the elbow a second later than the arm.
In the dust on the windowsill – clear prints of bare feet.
They lead outside.
Beyond the window there is no street – the glass is propped up by rough dryness.
A streetlamp shines from within a cloud devoid of boundaries and shadows.
An open book smells of wet wool and loses its letters:
they slide off the sentences, sifting onto the floor as black graphite.
I search for my name – a stranger’s word sticks in my mouth.
The table no longer means anything.
The house crumbles into syllables that do not hold together.
I search for my mother’s face – imagination tosses up a white oval.
Language retreats to the hallway and closes the door behind it.
The key turns three times. The fourth – deep in the thickness of the wood.
The angle between the walls narrows: of ninety, five remain.
The shoelace melts into the leather of the shoe, like hot wax.
The familiar corridor stretches for a dozen new steps.
Things forget their own names. Names look for other things.
Beneath the thin film of everyday movements,
a blind, formless substance, older than the house, seeps through.