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Four-thirty:
The sky is dark as ash
The stars, diminished
By the dim suburban glow
To pale dots

New England sunsets come early
This time of year
The weary sun
Hard-pressed even to mount
The subtle curve of Earth
A glimmer between barren trees
Must (for now) suffice
Below, we bathe in blankets
Down like warm mud
Baking in the dry heat
Of oil burners and seasoned firewood
We might be content
If we never had to leave
If suns and souls could both swim in the darkness
Of a hot bath and the lights turned off

If suns we are,
Can we negotiate
An extended hibernation?
Agree amongst ourselves
That most things can wait for March
Or at least until the solstice

Come back down with me, then
Wallow in the thickness
Below the horizon
Darkness doesn’t matter
When eyes are closed