Afternoon Following Night and Morning Storm
for Zoe Anglesey It isn’t raining now when it should be.
Only light on grass, the immensity
of its, the
light’s, trans- parency. Such a huge
perfect
empty clarity, this luminosity
that stretches in
between us, as
I read in today’s mail in an old
newspaper clipping
sent 3 years afterwards of your death. Someone’s
blowing one
of the saxophones you loved behind me now in the house
through the windows
in
the tulip poplars. I remember how in one of your
early poems, about Guatemala, you
shouted hello
to the corpse of a torture victim tied to a charred sierra tree, then dragged the body
not beyond grief
but deep into it and then
out the other side into light, this
cremation fire
of memory, this burning and
reburning of the real in which
the no-longer-to-be-found
once again lights up —Robert Bohm —TOP OF PAGE— | 
