Come evening, it’s almost too late
to walk in the garden, and try
once again, to retire the masculine
God of my youth
by evoking instead the divine
in the lupines, or foxgloves, or self-
whose heavy horns flush as they
open to flower, and draw
these bumbling, well-meaning bees
which remind me again,
of my father . . . whom, Christ,
I’ve forgotten to call.
Name that Buddleia!