The sky refused to break all at once -
rain crumbled over in stubborn little halts

as we stood there, simpletons and gods alike
under the wet and ashen hem that hovered

as if reluctant to descend into our phalanx
of grief. Suits and ties our inadequate shields

against the cold clench at the throat
as the mourning file piled pale flowers

in lieu of words because words, too,
had halted in the air. Trees drew

bruises across the young afternoon,
& the white water tower rose like a giant

trying to understand our forms of death:
how we ringed round the opened earth

& fed our memories to each other
because it salved the worst of the hewn

wounds raw-carved into brains by loss,
& reminded us of what's left, of who we were.