fifteen degrees scratching

but not a lot
you enter

but not a lot
the stranger looks back

but not a lot
toward three windows

but not many
slightly ajar

but only short
the frame becomes a house

but only one
a corridor wild with laughter

but not a hate
a dune collapses

but far away
above Nathan’s child

but not mine
elastic orange actor

but not him
the camera inclines

but not at me
swings, runs, slips

as you’d expect
to golden water

but not the death
you turn to a mirror

there is me

there is him

there is her
the ceiling bends

this is it