Ronald H. Bayes

I thought it was you turning in bed—listening I know it is just the rain, heavier.

First I’ve heard in a long time— breathe deep. I rest easier. Happily.

Floods? I doubt it, if so we'll cope later, in due time.

Six a.m. loud grandfather clock in your six-mat room always 45 minutes off always very loud

this sleeplessness while you sleep through.

Our coming together from far ends amazes us both, neither knowing the other was cowardly too, two years ago, now we confess it, laughing.

We joy in such presence my cynical dear: we are in love, knowing it usually passes with flowers and years— still honoring it.

On waking at four by your beautiful person I listened to your heavy breathing two hours with no wish to sleep: I refused to sleep.

With sun through shades at nine I woke again, saw the perfect flower of your ear on my inner arm, pressed into it. Celebrated quietly another hour.

Now we part with hot coffee and without grief planning, instead of tears, outrageous attacks on future years to keep our hearts as dry as wit whatever our eyes think of it.

And so you woke and wondered and were afraid last night alone pitched into considerations of who and if and if there is a home any are quiet in.

“It is sincerely to be hoped that these childish recycles of worry won’t be repeated often.”

The windows are tin. There has been no rain in Tokyo for 57 days. The city, you are told, is like a tinder box.

You fool romantics dwell on painful, passionate ends.

everything you gave me— the pen in Dublin at the Post Office, your letter back in London, your address in Philadelphia.

You poor bastard, you'll never hear from me again.

Evenly fog parts and you are again lovely as a fresh hill lady is.

High mountains we hear you over our lake fireworks. How welcome!