The Ghost Bed

Last night, it was time to test
The rescue boat on the lake.
Everything was in order—
Ropes, pumps, life-jackets, sonar.

Last night, pulses probed the bed
For drowned ore trains and boat hulls.
Just a test. Surface like glass
Into which winged insects crashed.

Last night, spotting the outlines
Of boilers, stumps, and prows, moon
Sinking, wind rising, they said,
Too bad boats can’t raise the dead.

Last night, moon, and last night, wind,
A poem as cold as moonlight.
Fires turn ash and all tears dry.
Glass startles whatever flies.