Looking for Barry
  By Jane Lipman

God made strangers because sometimes they do
things no one else can:
carry your brother’s coffin backward up a stairs,
emit his scent,
scatter his voice over thresholds,
his laughter through the thin dime of the moon.

My brother of wings.
My brother isn’t where I left him.
Is he in the jar of lightning bugs we caught at dusk?
Is he strewn with apricot bones everywhere?
Is he hiding in the organ grinder’s music?
In leaf shade? In tulip light?
In a glitter of sea foam?
In the resurrected moon?
In a rosary of wind?