Poem 3:

The sun sets early in the winter

and I fix my gaze on the horizon

the twilight's glow radiates atomic hues

of orange, pink, and yellow

while I watch steam stream from my nostrils

it grows

like a post-detonation mushroom cloud

and after spreading wide

it disappears in the radiant light

I count my fingers to make sure there's only ten

I wiggle my toes for reassurance on the same number

Only they grow numb(er)

as I wait

to fold my hands in holy prayer position

to capture the last light lingering along the thread-thin line

just before the last illumination plunges itself into a shadowy pool

and leaves me floating in chilly darkness