MY HOUSE TALKS TO ME. It talks of seasons in a language that I barely notice from day to day. It is both a sign language and one of irregular sounds: of distant clicks and slow sighs, often drowned by the clatter of daily domestica. Occasionally, when some activity or another gives me time to pause, I look closely at the changes creeping slowly into the house and take pleasure in measured reflection. I observe the results of slow, gentle and inexorable movement: a folding in the wall lining and buckling of the once-flat sheen of yellow paint, a door jamb chipped of paint from daily, unplanned passing encounters with a recently misaligned door.
I pass these little notes the house has left me, barely seen
