The hill slanted upwards very steeply,
and I wondered if the entire house was slanted, then, too.
I asked my mom, if I slept on the floor,
would I slide from the top wall to the bottom wall?
She laughed, and assured me that the inside was level.
The realtor showed us around, wood floors,
high stairwell that seemed to lead into nothingness.
In the back, between the kitchen and the living room,
there was a sliding glass door.– I walked through it.
There, in the garden, the grass grew long,
my shoes sank into the dirt,
and the green itchiness crept onto my ankles.
I stared at the snail crawling past a slab of concrete,
that just seemed to be placed there for no reason.
(I was later told that it was covering up an underground storage space.)
Beyond the slab was a slight, rock border on the grass
that was unevenly placed, like tiny hands had slowly
picked up rocks from another part of the garden
and placed them delicately onto this open space,
one at a time, until their little hands could pick up no more.
I wondered, then, did those little hands belong to someone
with little eyes, and when they saw the house, on that slanted hill,
did they think that the inside was slanted too?