Airport Letter

112 Airport Letter Paul Guest I left my heart in Phuket, I sang, lifting from the emerald earth, table tray stowed before me in obedience to her voice. Or her boredom, paining me. That we should have all this sun but want sleep and more sleep or a vat of bruised gin was unbearable. With me I had no books and no paper on which to diagram sentences in Esperanto. I read the air-sickness bag inviting me to advertise on its side my product and had to smile. Remind me never to resist. Remind me to produce something this year but not a child, nothing that will have my eyes or begin to speak this foreign language. I thought of you beneath the zaftig clouds. The sun dropping through them like a lustrous bomb. The ganglion of roads running out into the night. Looking for small birds is instructive but only in rage and infinite humility. I’m learning geography is about loss and so I keep moving into closets that never smell like you. 113 I’m learning not to order everything and want nothing. My mouth is empty. The words won’t stay. ...