The playlist starts repeating, rice is almost done.
Snow piles up against one window, not the other.
In the mushroom kit, coffee grounds, nothing yet to see.
On the skylight, snow flashes: red, redder, blue
When truth, a truth, with its heavy belt of names
Comes clopping through the living room in heels.
Mouths full of stone, a mile-plus breakwater, lighthouse
At one bright, hot end, aren't we saying what we should?