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8 n e w p o e m s t h e l i g h t i n e v e r y o n e ’ s e y e s I never saw light like that in everyone’s eyes the misty-rain morning we dug a hole and buried Bawa Muhaiyaddeen. He always called us the lightpoints, the jewel-lights of his eyes. We traded pointed spades back and forth digging in the rocky Pennsylvania earth, placed him curled in the bottom without a box, on his side with a handful of ground in his hand next to his cheek, then filled in, around and over. When the grave was up to within two feet of ground level, I was in the hole by myself packing the dirt with my boots, not noticing that others were waiting with more fill to shovel in. A voice says quietly, Do you want to go with him? Just lie down. It was like mirrorglow, or water ripples on a cliff, the light in everyone’s eyes that December morning. ...

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