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The car rolls the last of the light over bonnet brim, collapsing away the day
in a series of dull trapeziums, neatly; briefly, I watch a shoulder’s shadow
fidget under the weight of that rare dart of sky folding, opening where
their heads should be, hands on the wheel, a fray of fingers pulling
apart those broad shapes, the last of the light, was that a wave?
perhaps - - and now I am certain - - a window winding down,
I lean to catch it before they take the corner, finger proud,
a hand, small arm, warm, bright fulgerite of arm arcs
into the air, searing soft and there! they! the sun
sets, jellied, belied, too late to wave back but
at my little table, the bones of it all in place,
good grief, I see it now, how to begin.