A cupped palm, a few stolen redbuds
in the fluorescent light of the night bus.
Already now the dogwoods issue
their bulletins to all cardinal points.
It is twilight again. I have missed this blue.
I want to bruise the redbuds with my fingers,
break them in my teeth. I do not move.
I would like the closeness of a warm rain,
the weight of it, that intimacy. I watch.
The blue deepens. The night bus carries
its box of light past the edge of the city.