There is always someone living in the house, not you, not a cricket. Someone turns on a light in each room, one after the other, and you think this world must be an egg. The sun in pots, in pans, the sun shutting out the carpet. Globe of the Hallway. It keeps hedges from growing too far, fruit from looking at its core. It could be blinding. It could be winning. A row of houses in a circle, small planets in the making, revolving in the deepest of sleep.