The wind does each French kiss in curls;
and the horny baseball field unfurls
its dust in stamen shape to lick
in turn the wind with pollen ick.
And the soccer players’ pistil lungs,
from which their baby coughs are sprung,
from just across the gravel road,
helped wave a peeling safety cone:
the loosening reflector tape
unbuttoned from its collar shape.
The river surged its pyramids
in umber and the gusting wind,
or orange like a safety cone
whose caution had a warmer tone.
I cinched my scarf and watched a boat
the wind erred less than did my coat,
as air made billow in its skirt
a visual pregnancy of the hurt
which, unforeseen, cony-caught and stunned
me. My collar waving, left undone.
––East River Park, 4 Oct 2015