I’m in transit at Sharjah airport.
I’m failing to follow a conversation
taking place in Russian.
throws me onto Kazakhstan in 10 hours.
If I understood Russian
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
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.