xxxxv.

in the dark tonight,

I am not the man I should be

but I am thinking of you,

and looking out over the canyon

facing the sea

when the waves rustle,

I hope they whisper a lullabye

across the water

         in your desert city, not so different than mine

but much busier, to you

in your flat, with smoke in the walls,

         and a collection of bottles on the sill, I’m assuming

many different shapes—

--I dreamt we met in Bangkok, possibly

in Singapore, and passed briefly on a rainy street

on a cold day, in front of grey buildings,

and stalls with colorful awnings, it halfway

passed for English summer

and our eyes met, yours hooded by your hair,

and mine shaded by my hat, for a moment

I was surprised and thought, “What an interesting woman—

what is she thinking?” and you thought, “What

an unusual man—where is he going?”

perhaps I saw you again later, by the river

and we walked into the mist along the banks,
with the lights gleaming on the further side

or perhaps we simply exchanged a nod,

recognizing a fellow-traveller in the silent

streets—

--if the palms are kind, they will pass

this note under the crack in your window