Nausea (I)

It is mid-February.
The redding tree tips
adorn a pale sky,

the sunlight carries
a chill-edged warmth
and I am alone.

I read aloud
in thawing parks
so that my voice

trips through wind.
My lips and eyes
pinch from cold ache;

splashes of pain
stain my forearms,
scalp, eyebrows.

I dislike the buds
of a new year,
its first months.

They are empty frames
that fail to capture
time, fearful time.