Old House, Tung Ping Chau

The house withdrew, leaving me
homelessnessless. I could no longer inhabit
any of its accustomed atmospheres.
All my furniture was in the wrong place;
pictures hung out of focus, unbalancing
walls; either the light was too dark
or too bright or too somewhere in between,
playing havoc with my mood. Had I
stopped giving out my personal climate?
Why could I not extract familiarity
from the utterly familiar? Was it
my turn to turn inexplicably alien?
Then, without fanfare, the house
switched back on, returning, reclaiming,
recalmed — until next time my powers failed.

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