Battery Park in Winter

Near noon in the city in the park

in the salted air in the cold cringe

cringing two hands glued red

to my cheeks. I give away comfort to get it back.

Oh, look at the sun, I must say to myself

over and over, so that I might look at the sun.

I rent a language guide

to hold my hand

while I sit sneezing

in home’s direction—I am

far away. But I can see

the ocean: not so far.

Nine children on the playground. Ten trees

planted in a row. So nice

to be a swelling sleeper,

thinking at a jogger’s pace. Bees

born from my fingertips

burst toward all the dying life.