Blonde as you were, and tall,
in zero degrees you pressed me
against a tree in Prospect Park
as if neither of us needed to breathe.
Your pale wrists rubbed raw by wind,
your lips frozen blue and thin.
Under a tight brown jacket
whose worn buttons barely worked
your heart throbbed wildly
on its way to first love.
Perhaps you already knew
the course was long and too steep.

I heard your heart beat;
fingers in an empty glove.