it holds its floors, it holds its windows tissues; drapes of tissue, it may hold on its windows;rugs, and for a time, the dust in rugs on its floors moss in your terrarium; on the sill of the windowa wilderness in miniature, a floorhumid and primeval gallons of dried paint and plaster aroundits windows but also in cans; wisps on glassimprecise edgesin floorboard graintoo many desiccated spiders to count are held accounts it cannot hold; water is more or lessdrained through it and away but not without its nourishment;as with light, which returns as mossbut unaccountably, having come and gone;coming and going hold themselves;the ear drum may hold the sound of coming or goingbut not at the same time and not for long;hearing at least feels like holding and where else does it go if the music is played loudly enough it can be feltthrough the floor; the floor can hold the musicas the ear drum with coming or going; or does it greetwhat arrives and release what departs; music travelsfrom the floor to the walls and can be felt there, too;sometimes, it seems to be cracking the walls some;by the foot on the floor and the hand on the wallor the drum in the ear;held in a larger sense by where it goes, which,if you hold it, for example,is held in the mind’s eye or something, becomingportable; it can only be held as you canyou it cannot hold; it considers,believes, obliges, as long as you do,to cover and protect, and sees you on your wayto new houses of the sun, the moon, arrangementsof light in the way across your back, shoulder, chest;you could be music or even just a soundit permits, but so could it be, under your permission,as you step from the floor, through a window,as it is always there, maybe only a couple notesin the resonator recalled by small fingers inanother person’s hand and just as soon forgottenbut not lost; it cannot hold you,and you must hold itas the guitar that’s a coffinthat holds its floor, that holds its windowsthat would tell you about heaven but cannot;what heaven holds, it cannot hold,even as the ear drum with coming or going;or heaven, rising unaccountably within,a path of notes towards melodyspills away from it just as unaccountably it can hold acts of love as we claspone another in the cup of shelter; as water fallinginto a cup from a height, our lovemaking rushesacross one wall, along the floor, up and off the lip;a kiss is held thus, in place of voices,by which we know some warmth, breath,sweat-to-salt, that approach and vanishsuspended in motif, somewhat protectedand also vulnerable like anything in flight;the snow swiftly recedes from its browhaving only just appeared in the nightbecause nothing can hold heat very well;a spirit like yours,eked out in quick shallow breaths,is always escaping even its own limbs;this soft exchange it enables and describes;how it holds: it houseswhat requires clothes as something close and small;when you are back from an outing,how it welcomes you and I do, recalling itselfand myself embodied unaccountably;when you press your skin to its floors, my skin,they return; you’re holding them true to the world.