Am I the rain, or am I the house?

Or am I the light? And must I contain it,

or can I let it fly out of this open, hardscrabble field,

like a flock of terns ascending and descending

and traveling in stretches to make textures

and colors in the clouds, until a place inside the heart,

where mirrors are polished to hide the edges,

becomes his face? 

I find the word absurd in a book somewhere deep 

in memory, where the word queer should be, 

where a sentence can take a lifetime to explain. 

How can he be gone? Where is he now? 

What is his body? 

Can absence be everything, or anything other 

than longing? The flames tell a story of photons 

and spirits moving in a warped geometry of words rising

in the sparks forming questions, endless permutations 

repeated in letters and numerals purporting to unriddle 

the sedulous craft of unraveling debris,

of ashes in a plastic bag, and unrelenting church bells. 

Maybe he died to make something else, unexpected, 

or unbelievable, like moss hanging from trees? Otherworldly. 

Are tears simply the slow return of the tide? Then, maybe,

if I give enough, he will call me again to say, “hey boy,” 

because I was his, and am his, and I still have the same number. 

No computations needed, just the honest, gentle touch 

of his fingertips, or maybe if I stop looking for him 

in all the things,

in time, in shoeboxes, in the popcorn ceiling,

then he will remember me, like a dream had in reverse,

or I forget him in everything, except the one sequence—

the only effect to solve all pangs from any grave,

a walk in the sunlight, step after step, to find the way

back to the gleam and glitter of the coterie of gagmen.