for my Brother Greg

Seven years of water
had gone down the Ganges
before I came to you again— 
in the rain, empty-handed as ever
with my two kids and a mountain
of duffel bags on the train platform
on Easter Sunday in the dark.
I asked myself how I could 
show you these eyes that hold
less and less when I so wanted
to bring you something: a map,
a tapestry, a wonderful story,
and not the only thing I have,
which is a little bit of nothing,
a space inside the jungle
where the silence sits
and sings its strange song.
I’ve found that whatever 
I’ve found in my life
is no good to anyone,
except perhaps as a nudging 
elbow into the ribs of the reticent 
angel that she might whisper:
Go on, go on, into your own 
deepest hopes and find— 
or lose—whatever you can.