The Tilted Yellow House in Troyes, France

The second story slants to the east, as seen 

from the street. Even with a yard 

bordered by a church, even when I see 

a steeple topped by a cross topped

by a lightning rod, the only clear and trusty 

defense in the face of God, such a slouch 

surprises. These faded yellow walls 

are a shriek in a scanty street, but the paint 

is weathered, peeling, mottled as the ages 

through which we live. Every mullioned, 

latticed frame is bordered by a fierce red 

calling to extinguish fire. Each pane 

is an empty box or a petty diamond, narrow 

enough to admit light without admitting 

vision. Living in this tilted house every day, 

with all balance constantly a challenge, 

floors fighting our every step, every round 

thing rolling away, every flat thing 

a claim to missing rectitude, every glance 

through glass from within at the world 

beyond us reveals another world at an angle 

we do not share in a home we share.