Crisis Arm

I can't speak.
It's not killing me.
Be still outside.
Be brown bones on black ink.

This planet's a mile squared;
no visible factories,
but ovens and light bulbs;
no radio towers,
but radios in bright kitchens.

It dawned on me:
This shall not be a house of darkness.
This shall not be a house of light.
Be still outside.
Be still outside.