stares

crumpled shades of red under folded cafe au lait limbs, ondaatje's book lays open, its pages fanning out, neglected. the windows of this room face east but the sun arcs along a southern latitude. bakerloo runs under us so the hand mirror trembles, but there is never a moment when it is not quivering, almost imperceptibly. houses on dunes. eyes drawn to the waves of the curtains, some glowing white, others grey in the shadow of their own folds. and there's that wall again, the few inches that frame the top of the windows. it's not really there. the thought that always comes to mind at that spot.