The rain. A sudden squall, the delight
of running, hand in hand across the grass
already slick and wet. Rain as hard
and sharp as hail, its sting and burn against
the skin. My girlfriend’s thin t-shirt riddled
with translucent scattershot. Pierced to
her flesh. Bullets of desire
                                                 I think now,
the deluge of shootings in the news
unwelcome metaphor, a bloodstain
even on memory, how on the first crack
we’d run—if it wasn’t too late, our shirts
already blooming—for different cover.

Don’t get me wrong. The past, too, is shot through,
not everything under the alcoves
of St. Agnes laughter and stolen kisses,
the girl, that boy, gone. I forgot them,
two teens huddled against something more
than rain. It doesn’t come back, what they ran to
beyond the obvious,
                                        the rain
a trigger squeezed, memory a gunshot,
darkness flashed to light. Outside my window
a downpour. A girl runs beside a boy,
his skateboard raised above their heads. She shrieks.
It could be terror, but I think not yet.