The Density

I would like to say
that we made love
as we listened to the news
in the shower.

That we touched
at least our hands
at the soap, on the knobs,
or grabbing for
the same towel, the obituaries
of the world spilling
the room even as the water failed
and we dressed ourselves.

She turned the radio
off and there was only
the rain on the windows,
against the walls and roof:

the ten thousand
small feet of the dead
of that day. There was
no space for our awkward,
human dancing.