Keep the Wrong Line!

The house settles a fraction each winter,

not enough to notice,

only enough to alter the angle of quiet.

In the morning, light leans differently

against the far wall.

Dust reveals its own slow architecture.

I walk the hallway carefully,

as if balance were a courtesy

I could extend to wood and plaster.

Some rooms keep their breath longer than others.

The kitchen exhales in pipes and metal.

The bedroom absorbs the sound of turning.

I have learned not to name what shifts.

Naming implies correction.

Correction implies fault.

The mailbox across the street is painted blue.

When the wind presses against the windows

the glass trembles without protest.

It does not break.

It only registers pressure.

I try to live the same way.

Allow for weight.

Redistribute.

If something in me tilts,

I adjust the furniture slightly —

a chair closer to the wall,

a table turned to catch less glare.

Even silence has load-bearing beams.

Even restraint must rest somewhere.

At night, the floor releases a single sound —

a small acknowledgment of gravity.

I let it remain.

In the morning,

the house is still standing.