Jet-lag All day your eyes conspire to close, no matter how sublime the view. At 1 a.m. your stomach groans for steak or cake, for chips or stew. At 2 you think of stupid songs, and tax, and things you didn’t do. At 3 your private fears arrange themselves into a ghoulish zoo. At 4 you sink in darkest depths of softest sleep, an hour or two, and though at 6 their foreign sun pokes through the curtain that you drew, your body knows where you are from, and still its loyalty is true. Katherine Spadaro Counting One-two-three! he said…