You think the weight would sling the bus: back slamming
        the front forward, some bright, reverse catapult
on the thinner part of the ice, latticed thicker & outward,
        a center untouched by the children, who were too young
to understand fear, unable to know about blades to slice
        through seats, the strength to even crack a window—
with the water cold enough for hypothermia, cold enough
        for the breath to choke without getting air. I watched them,
watched the bus slowly disappear without fire, explosion,
        black plumes rippling the frozen roots upon the lower banks.          
I knew I could do nothing, thought of a small obituary,
        no mug shot, how I'd never become a hero—all
among the screams I never heard, & want to, & never will.

After the film by Atom Egoyan

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I like the idea of ekphrastic film poems, and to a certain degree that's what I thought of when I started writing this series.