Moon, January

The moon was Chanel,
show-offy in purity, an also-
ran or might-have-been.
The air chewed twigs

from the bare trees,
gorging on unkempt gardens.
The healthy cold proved Prussian,
stringent about lavatories

and honor. I saw the afternoon
darkly, the gloaming soon
after dawn, each day spent
before its hand left

its pants pocket. Those long
afternoons of summer, the sun
barely ducking under the horizon
before bobbing up, well,

that was being young.
So much to look forward to,
the body waiting to angle its desires.
Winter, that was another thing.