Jet lag is
anaesthesia or
a quiet death.
Early evening
it strikes, only to
resurrect you
at 2 a.m.
remembering young
Alexander
Shelley conducting
Schumann, his body
a dancer’s
full of grace and
command. I tell the
person in my
bed (who proves to be
you, my darling)
I feel like lunch
and a nice game of
tennis. ‘Wrong season,’
she murmurs
forgetting we
haven’t played these
forty years. Unsure
of the map of
my own bedroom
I travel the world
seeing again the fox
in Queen’s Park,
the giant fish
I named Carp Diem
in the millpond
at Gaiole,
and my New York
friend in a yellow
cab in a
line that stretches
all the way to
a dream of breakfast.