The first time I entered his empty room
I stood in the silence
of the hospital bed, his white cup
still on the tray, remembering the day
I found him, my older brother,
in the front room on Canal Street,
his back to me, writing
with his finger on the air,
unaware I was watching him move
from left to right down an invisible page,
pausing, striking out a line, revising,
until he turned and asked me what
was I staring at, was I catching flies
with my open mouth, then rushing
past me into his hidden life, leaving
me in that quiet room, dust
rising through slanted light, all those words
hanging heavily in the air.
