Richard Brautigan in Heaven

Somewhere in America
Richard Brautigan is still fishing for trout.

It is not this America
but if you close your eyes
you can see it from here.

He is casting a line silhouetted
against lemon-colored mist rising
off a stream that runs down 
a mountainside in a place that looks
like Montana.

His floppy hat has blown off to somewhere
and his hair has grown into a map
of every trout stream he ever fished:
a wild tangle of rivulets
currents and flashing rainbows.
The lines on his face are tiny poems.

It might be strange for us
but not for Richard.
He has arrived at the silence of himself
and is listening to it.