End of January
No invitations left for it.
I am all outside now
Beyond any framework for this god of doors
Its first face is four years long
I am tired of looking through its road-salt eyes
The month’s mouth is a boy’s knee
Punctured by a splayed root
Its voice is a wrist shattered like ice
Its ears a bird caught in a basement
On the coldest night of the year
Its other face is a choice
Nobody saw coming
Translations from the English 
That last line!!!!
Thanks. The poem took over at the end, just like the month does.
Funny how that happens!😎
I hope February is funnier.
Oh, those choices, Jeff!