A little black pool-sinker
Through the blue,
Before touchdown–
And the blue becomes white.
A white tablecloth pulled taut
Over the sky like skin
Or a plastic bag over a head–
Suffocating with Hiroshima ash
Before the sky burns down.
The pool sinker seemed brilliant–
Clutched in a child’s fat hand,
But fists close
And hands throw–
While water ripples,
The water will forget.
