The bomb, as it lands
in a movie, sucks up
all sound. The bomb,
as it lands like a leaf,
with a dawdling waft.
As it lands on a roof
like an acorn at night.
As it lands at our feet,
out of the blue, before
the wedding shower.
Lands inopportunely,
near the anniversary,
a fluke, September.
As it lands, we gawk.
We gape and quake.
The bomb, as it lands
that afternoon, sends
an elm-shaped plume
of world into the sky
and a debris of plans
drift back, like leaves.
We forget, over winter,
how they'll grow again
on the left-there limbs.

 

 

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