You drink an entire pot of coffee yourself;
and you can see things.
visions that aren't quite there.
the pulse from consignment shop windows.
Christmas lights. dust covered. gray.
every misplaced thought.
from this other place comes static
insect in the snow vibrations
feedback loops of past voices
distant memories made of sound.
and the toilet running in background,
like the longest strand of hair tangled in the drain, says;
all is holy. in the bloody end.
it has to be.