I want the sun to spit at me like hot oil
             but there she sits      clot
             of cream   bleached orange
                         full and sweet and selfish.
She won’t wane
                                        pools like wax
at the base of a burning candle.
We wrap ourselves in this thin
             shawl of moonlight
gorge on whatever warmth we find
like dried strips of ash gourd
                                                                oh god
let us rest.
             We’re so tired
                           and the wolves won’t stop
howling.