The river behind the library
looks bottomless. Black current
smooths along, The bodies
of naked drowned teenagers
rarely surface to look around
and regret the world they left.
More often, a big limb torn
from a dying oak upstream
tumbles over the weir and prods
the brush as it slips toward Antrim.
a dozen miles north. No one
can name those washed away
in the hurricane before the war.
No one remembers the railroad
that trestled across at an angle,
but the footers remain in place.
I lean on a stone wall and watch
for the limber and lanky children
who exposed their gleaming puberty
only for the river to mock them.
All this happened so long ago
that the river has cleansed itself
by abrading on its stony bed,
leaving only me to blame.
