Had it not happenedthat I turned to the side,the bullet would have piercedthe back of my head.

I close the door behind Greta.The cauliflower wrapped in newspaper under her arm, she waves to me.Her cauliflower-styled hair, pinned high, wavers.

I turn the key in the lock,flip the small cardboard signso that the side reading be right back faces outward,the word open now turned in.

Had it not happenedthat I turned to the side,the bullet would have piercedthe back of my head.

I follow myself, watching myself in thought,wondering how to describethe perspective from which I observe myself.

At the same time,the rotations have sufficed—the first and the second—turning toward her,then standing upright,my turning of the small sign,cut from thick cardboard—be right back.

Evidently, each turngives rise to its own reality—in turning on, turning over, turning toward,being turned away by the turn,turned over and turned toward—

had it not happenedthat I turned to the side,the bullet would have piercedthe back of my head.

As it is,it only grazes the bridge of my nose,tears the skin—the wound barely bleeds.

The passagefrom the bridge of the noseto the foreheadis only lightly suppliedwith blood.

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