i. This cherry tree has uncupped its blossoms too soon I’ve never viewed limbs so bowed tonight’s torrents could obliterate them Branches rock petals clutch Hunched in a coverlet I'll stay on the porch till sunup Is it foolish to believe that by seeing them through the cruelest spasms of the storm I'll be given some say ii. My father frowns out his nursing home window— agitated— he can't pluck the lodestar from the constellation flickering above the shuddering industrial silos he calls City of Woes. I trim his beard; he jerks back, studies me: You’re late, Kid. I brush away the clippings that lie clustered on his collarbones like white inflorescences. Lis, I remind. I’m Lis. Shift’s end, the nurse plods in, replaces the paper diaper, snugs the blanket, closes the blind against the approaching winds. Ashamed, he thanks her. He's sorry he kept her so deep into the night, far from her daughters, whose names he articulates. Later, his hands covering my own, his voice wavering: My Cordelia. iii. this night the storm behind us I want for you to see beyond the soot and the city’s greasy lights I want the stars to bloom for you in the deepest particles of your skin tomorrow let them gather your breath into a luminous bouquet but this night — I can’t make you see me forever shaken