Apology in the Age of Construction

We can only recall the freak accidents:
              the lightning bolt hitting the right arm
at a right angle, the bees pouring
              from an overturned truck, the crocodile
that escaped on a lawn, sipping lemonade.
              This is all to say: we did not mean to let
the road break in half. We laid down layers
              of asphalt in the tradition of weavers.
The sun hardened our loom.
              We were led here to break bread
and this is not a metaphor. The dawn
              gnawed down around us. Full appetite.
In the early morning, we mistook snow
              for falling specks of paint, a construction
site for an amusement park. We climbed up
              the rafters and were tall. And here we are.
Tall. Our limbs stretched out enough
              to call out our slights, strike by strike.