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.