Face In The Window

I am a modest house, a house solely notable for the fact I lived here once. Its brass plaque depicts an oxygen eye in which two pupils of hydrogen dance. Downstairs is where I lit fires whose insights with approach-velocity froze me, then singed off into flame. This always happened when I came close to a truth. Months passed. Years. Nights. Shall I accommodate myself again, a humble aquarium of lordly thumbs, some fin de species? Of course each word the blackout-moth mutters to my keyboard shows the snowiest letter on this page is “I”— must I now plumb its one remaining pane?