Wednesday 2 May 2018



I’m in transit at Sharjah airport.

I’m failing to follow a conversation
taking place in Russian.

Air Arabia
throws me onto Kazakhstan in 10 hours.

If I understood Russian
as poorly
as I understand why I run from love,
I would switch from unease about Kazakhstan
to total alarm.

as I collapse
upon the airport’s icy tiles
at 3am,
you are waking to the embrace of a Sunday morning
I can yet recall.

As you rise from your bed, Adelaide,
look over to see me getting into mine
and, if you could,
take a moment to tuck me in.

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