And in late spring,
when peaked golden
, eager teenage trees

& lopsided thicket
grow over the railway
of clear sun off steel’s

straight lines because
but for twice-an-hour
silence all around—O!

they are pushed back
fingers slapped away
until recoiled they bite

their green lips—A
buddleia( gristled itself
stubborn in the rubble)

bushes pink tongues
to the underside of
butterflies who spin

in pleasure, twitch
open their wings wide
& offer more until

the eleven-o-five catches
them from behind &
they carousel whimpering,

regain, sigh, float back
from the tracks weakly
, take a deep breath

to rest once more
upon the buddleia’s
now-purple tongue.