Jet lag is
anaesthesia or
a quiet death.

Early evening
it strikes, only to
resurrect you

at 2 a.m.
remembering young

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.