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

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