so the city sleeps, Christmas in Mingechevir

Smokey cold washes the low hills
Makes creeping funnels
That swing slowly
With a creak
As they reach my unfinished house

Up high
Partially embedded in sky
The sun can’t reach the river
So the blue washes out
And becomes
Grey today

Huddled in a warm corner
Hugging knees to chest
The electricity is rickety,
But on

Across the whole city
Gas fires burn orange

Rusted roofs disappear
The grey today
Has taken them
And collected them
in one hand
Cupped closed
For warmth