Floating Requiem
Rita Dove
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Summer ended powerfully—as if God
had snapped a branch from his mightiest oak
and thundered: “Enough.” The sky dimmed.
Cloaks appeared. The Elbe’s blue road
turned wild and gray, struck by a grim fury.
Everywhere one trudged, stone claimed
dominion, and set an implacable face
to the centuries—only to culminate
in this pleasing line of turrets and domes
along the rapidly darkening riverfront.


