The Moon

	is a small child playing in the forest,
	a midnight game of hide and seek.
	I catch a glimpse of bare skin
	interleaved with branches - looking

	as I am from an upstairs window
	of the deserted mansion in my dream.
	The child is being scolded by the wind
	or by a long dead foster parent

	reminding me that I once ran naked
	through the green groves in those years.
	A pebble is tossed against the window.
	I have the urge to press my nose
	against the glass and see my hot breath
	forming clouds across the sky, the expanse
	between the summer warmth of childhood
	and the loneliness of winter coming on.

	I sit on the edge of old age,
	crepe-skinned voyeur locked
	in a flannel memory, yearning
	to run naked through the hemlocks.

	The wind, cold and shifting now, blows away
	his cover clouds, exposing the same bare
	skin, pale skin. The child shrugs, scuds
	behind the trees as the game reaches its end.

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