Dear friend with a spindle,

How do you do? I woke up sweating in an hour-less dark 
from last night's sleep from a dream I cannot tell about.
Better to say it was a dream of elephants, pink flamingoes
than others; it was humid in spite of the opened windows

Outlines of plane trees visible in the bright but waning
moon; the few days ago spent at a cove aptly named 
"Hidden" (in English, of course) by well-meaning locals. 
My tan darker now. My weeks here more less than more,

No matter I try not to count. Still, a few days before 
I had finally sent the latest collection of poems 
delayed at least half a year because-- 
A translation work and the editing of an anthology sat 

Beside me nights at the cove where I listened to the sound
of tide coming in and daybreak arriving; and watched locals
searching for seaweed and clams and other shells to eat.
A thirty-one year old woman with seven children 

Gave me a local story (the usual, all hearsay and no ending)
with an oil massage. I had slept in dreamless peace. 
The next day she sold fish from her neighbour's catch
and unripe mangoes from her neighbour's yard. 

It has been awhile since I've had a woman; this is such 
a sexist thing to say and I do not say it to anyone.
Like a sin meant for confession. To which I account
the restlessness. Do women also feel the same way? 

There was a poetry book launch and a literary gathering,
all fairly recently; another one tomorrow by a writer
in a local tongue I have come to love in spite of things--
such as not fully understanding it. The book am reading now

Is Atwood, a collection of her stories on inner lives (or 
tumult?) of women and their placid surfaces; their words
ballet dancers on tiptoes onstage. I find no words 
right enough for women. Again, must be a thing to say.

I am tired and my defences from my own self are down.
(You must be reading between the lines now.) 
I still continue to walk the dogs days and nights, though
I have ceased to run. One might say that in a way, 

I am sad (although it is hard to certainly say). Determine 
a more apt word when a month is now named on the calendar.
There is a net in my mind for catching sadness 
before it arrives, no matter it is visible from the shore.

My eldest dog has become more affectionate and I wonder
if it knows the leaving that is coming soon. Perhaps, 
this is only projection, as nearly everything else perceived.
At night, I memorise the humidity and the outlines made

By shadows and warmth. Her beautiful brown skin too,
the scent of it without perfume. I sense, as in any story,
there will be love making soon in the same wild abandon 
we used to do but--