The roof gave way first — the gaps in the ceiling
quietly widening for months, the slow leak
when it rained. And then the snow blew in, the winter
the Weather Channel started naming blizzards.
We found buckets, arranged them in the wettest places.
My horoscope mumbled something about Neptune
and protection; get flood insurance, it pleaded,
too late. Two days later, you and I perched on the couch
with damp faces, putting each of our years to bed —
the marvelous one, the terrible one, the one we spent
waiting for something to change, the last one
trying to change ourselves. And then
there would be details — our cats drawing blood
from one another, the landlord finally come to examine
the holes — but for the moment only the feeling,
of dripping eaves and rushing gutters, each ridge
and valley and downspout, and on the inside the rafters –
heavy with moisture, compromised, separating.