Of the Buckley’s, I wondered which would better sing Hallelujah,

          Father? Son?

          of the muddied rivers that seized their young throats, I thought,

          of my own dark waters,

          of how, aged, I am beyond the tragedy of such angels

          and, should hope, 

          not to be found snared in the shallows,

          but rather, by tender hands,

          tumbled by luck and longevity, smooth as glass.