II
I wish that they were with me here
to walk under the palms
and feel the silken air—
my wife, three thousand miles away, my mother,
farther yet, being dead.

You write that you work and are tired.
I know—and remember your dream:
I was looking at the stars and saying
they were like this and like that,
and you, my wife, beside me,
making similes better than mine—
when an animal ran out of the bushes
to bite your foot and gnaw it; you screamed and I,
horrified and compassionate,
stood bravely watching.