In a random obituary, I hear of your death. No more rain; the balcony is still wet. You have been dead for eight months. A deep river flows between the futons laid out side by side. You were always late. Red and gold fish hide under a rock. Always late, and always your sleeves carefully folded. A cat knows the sunny spot. Flash lilies stick their heads out of the barrier net. I haven’t forgiven you for showing up with a comic book on that day.  Bright leaves don’t see me in the interior darkness. A downstairs neighbor talks to me for the first time. I try, but I cannot remember much else about you. The backdoor is ajar; two mosquitoes made it in.