Making Song of It

Watertown

All day in the wet air, all night almost
rain. We watched for it. Angry ghosts
stalked the attics of our houses. In the wake
of what we said shrapnel rippled out, mistakes
we'd made. It was how we read it that really
mattered, all we later saw we couldn’t see,
density determining which debris sinks or
which rises higher with each passing hour.
Too late a crack of gray spills onto black
for a boy adrift in a still afternoon.
Blood hardens instantly into fact
and the waters come for us too soon.

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