has coarsened my hair. The last together

too long, I won’t wash this out

before I fly.

I want to keep the hot wind tangled

next to my scalp, rasping

like your escalating breath. There are larks

in the sand among the camel droppings, drab

but with songs so liquid, the notes quench

the thirsty air.

Every grain of sand scouring my face,

settling in my shoes, reminds me of the flat

dry, plain of our yearning. And how

each reunion is as lush and draped

with touch as rain after a long

drought, replete with

the shadows cast by date palms

in a shimmering oasis.

On the tarmac, as I climb the metal stairs

toward the gaping metal fish that

will swim me home, the wind picks up.

I start this poem.

I am so tired I am staggering, but can’t