The winter was hard, spring late in coming, the whole summer slate-gray.
I watch bats fling themselves at the moon
that hangs low and red over the darkening beech trees
where I played hide-and-seek as a child.
My ancestors spoke Polish, Spanish, and surely some German.
But I only learned how to vanish in Danish. And very soon thereafter
I wrote this in a place called Söğütözü,
at a bus stop outside of Ankara.