The clouds, finally, have shredded into white.
The sky a frowsty blue we won’t see again for days.
We count the broken things: the bodies on the shore;
fallen power lines; uprooted trees; homes coated
in mud; knee-deep water; the way out boggy; grey
that has invaded our dreams. For days
we have been waking up at midnight —
water-soaked clouds skimming trees,
streets washed out by rain,
the milky way blazing unseen above us.
If we called out now what angels would come?