This week we
didn’t meet. I
hate that. The
bed is rumpled.
I go out onto
the lawn. The
stars are hid
in heavy haze.
The only moon
my lit room.
I put my hand
into the beam
that falls upon
a garden chair.
You’ve touched
that hand, and
it’s touched
you. I’ve little
to complain of.
In fact, I’m
not complaining.
I find it
on these hot
nights, hard to
fall asleep. If
you were here!
You almost were.
Then something
came up. Back
to bed. I’m reading
about Byron and
his last love,
la Guiccioli. I
identify with
her, afraid of
losing him. When
you’re down, I
get scared. What
if boredom should
set in? On your
side, not on mine.
I put my hand
on your side of
the bed. I see
you there as I
saw you sleep
there last week.
We’re not like
Byron and his
Teresa, we don’t
play games. (Byron,
by the way, was
great! So, in
her way, was
she.) At least,
the games we
play are sex
games, not the
kind that come
from ennui. God
damn this hot
and restless
night. I was
asleep and then
a dream that
you were angry
with me woke
me. I can’t
quite shake it
off. I know it
isn’t true. You’re
not. It’s hot:
I thought we’d
meet: we can’t:
I felt let down.
I get the downs
sometimes too. And
how. I trust you.
You’re as straight
as anyone I’ve
ever known. I hate
it when you’re
blue. You plunge
so deep into it. I
feel then I’m
in the dark and
can’t quite touch
you. Perhaps
I needn’t, shouldn’t
try. I respect
your inner life.
You have Irish
moods (and eyes).
I do too. I—
what is it that
I want to say? To
say this isn’t
a complaint. It’s
how I feel on
a hot night in
August, 1972,
missing you.
2087
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