Kokoy Guevara in Light by James Longley

Kokoy, I left the window
Blind over the bed
Pulled up, the shade halfway
Bound in a friend’s office
Where I was sleeping the day
Or I guess the night of the day
After Thanksgiving. After 
Spending the day on a beach taking
A few steps West into the cold
Waves of sea grass uprooted to wash
Ashore I watched for the first
Time in my landlocked life the sun
Go down over the ocean and nothing
Else between us, Kokoy, just
The great calm prairie inversion
In which the dead grasses rise up
From the water into a state
Of perpetual drought where we
Cannot prevent the oncoming
Catastrophe—Kokoy Guevara—in light
Of the blind I left hanging
Up there last night in America
In the light of the green discs burnt into
The direction I had been staring all day
Toward you and should have thought
Of that, should have remembered before
And again before that night your face
In the citric light of the morning
Pouring down through the open
Window in America after you died
I threw my arms out against that blinding
Sweet like stalks of roadside grass
Near broken beneath the conversion.