You turn on the light switch and the room
fills with light — turn off the light and the
light disappears — where did the light go? Like
the light falling through the trees of Paris
onto Hemingway’s face; the light ablaze
on Lenny’s yellow barn, or
the moonlight cupped in our hands?
Where did the light go that was on
my brother Leonard’s face, yesterday?
Yesterday’s breath, echo of my voice asking
the nurse to turn up the oxygen for him —
the thought, the light
breathe in breathe out
where will the light go? Where will the light go
that shines on Lenny’s newborn calf
that’s looking up towards the house, as