Blue Hour

•

Snowfall at dusk. Lights of the sky
          plummet earthward, where they fuse

into blue. An inner torrent drenches
          a cloth covering nose and mouth,

a sensation of drowning in griefs
           loosed on the world, returning to

waterboard us at home. Who laid this towel
          over our face? Whose iron bands hold us

to the table? It seems we'll say anything
          to end it. It seems we'll do anything

to anyone to avoid the rendezvous with
          our blue hour that now moves—in spite

of our frightened indifference, or because of it—
          to assert its cold, suffocating force.