The areaway, secret orifice, provides it. He takes his sack of old clothes and dreams there, relieved briefly. He sighs into his red cap. His face is ruddy from the elements, the street, his nose a cold bulb. The sun's air, brightness.
Light hides the cold if briefly.
Stride past the Martin Luther King Library. They don't seem to mind waiting. City planners planted these white-flowering trees in square plots for this morning, blossoms to spite the chill. Achieve the glittering block. Closed bars and consignment shops.