This must be the month when someone decided
to make months; to count sunsets and full moons and only give it
so much time. And though Janus looks both ways, this January
is intent only in winter's face. It cups and kisses it
on the forehead, on the eyelashes. Why would winter
ever want to leave, if all that attention kept up.
I pass a half-built church on my walk every morning
and every morning I'm filled with envy thinking of the dreams
the people building it must have. My dreams are shoeboxes
filled with bones from my feet. When I wake it's with a mouthful
of mother-may-I's and the taunting of another day,
daring me to take a step as it pulls the walls up even higher.
No, it doesn't look both ways, it makes me do that.
This house is a maze of those bare walls, perfect
for showing home movies on. And I've become the projector.
