The Ember Hour

Dusk leans against the windowsill
like a guest who will not stay.
The kettle ticks. A moth negotiates
the lamp’s gold weather.

Somewhere a radio remembers
a song we used to hum
without knowing the words—
only the warmth they left.

I set two cups on the table
as if waiting were a kind of light.
Outside, the city cools to cinders.
Inside, the hour still burns.