What I like in a house
is the room one cannot quite see—
the one with its door half-open,
showing a mere sliver of wall,
a picture sliced in half,
a mirror reflecting a window
that is invisible from outside
where you stand in the hallway
and the owner’s lady
emerges from above, revealing
how intricate is the space up there
because of a landing which casts shadow
challenged from below by the clear
cut glass of a chandelier:
under this runs the hall,
drawing one deep into its recession
with a gleam on the floor-tiles,
and in the distance a flash
off conservatory windows
angled open to admit
a summer evening, the clip
of feet advancing, and a voice:
"I do not believe that you
have been here before,” she says,
and though one has
what she says is true.