Page not found but here’s a poem about Richard Feynman.

Time of death

The scientist Feynman liked the idea
that positrons were electrons
moving backwards through time.

In the birthmonths of the bomb
he was called from Manhattan,
(shrouded-project not the borough),
to watch his beach-fresh, cool-water wife 
die young. 

25. TB. Mysteriously
the mushroom-belled 
bedside clock stopped 
when she did.

He dismantled the device 
to work out why,
as sorrow blasted through him 
like the litterwind.

Years unstable, old spring clumsily fitted, 
cog teeth sticking to rusty seconds, 
so when the brisk, iodiney nurse 
lifted it to record time of death, 
the insides unbalanced again. 
That was the answer.

Grief is love moving backwards.