Ciclo DCLI

The glass of the window is uneven in the old house; the world outside leans through it like a drunkard steadying himself on a post. Ecco. The canal’s water does not mirror the sky but invents its own dark geometry—angles that no straight edge would approve, curves that the compass never drew. I press my forehead to the glass and the tremor in my hand passes into the pane; for one breath the reflection and I are still. Then the water breathes again.