It was

the heat. You can always blame the heat. Or
algae in the water. The finger that the crook
may or may not have touched to the surface
of the soup. The low quality of the paint. Or
the adhesive. Or the impatience of the crew
tasked to make everything work just so. It was
the early self-congratulation. Followed by this
cascade of blame. It was the rockets in the sky,
the heat signals they sought, the silence of crickets
in the field.  Every day it was going to be the end. 
Or just another version of the end. The sun went 
to our heads until our heads exploded. It was a pool 
that mirrored nothing but dross. Not even the relief 
of a dagger buried in its poisoned heart.