On a Very Warm Summer Afternoon

Summer in the tropics.  As at 2 p.m., it was 89 F, and officially it felt like 98.  I can only surmise that a Bureau of Meteorology official set up a card table on the pavement outside his office, sat there for half an hour, wiped the perspiration off his brow with a handkerchief, squeezed the handkerchief into a Petri Dish, and did an esoteric experiment on the resultant bacteria to work out the BoM's official feeling on the matter.  Either that, or he made it up.

Speaking of making things up, I have been creating, another poem for my Belarusian love.  I wish to share it with you now...

Poem for Irina, January 8, 2012

It is not about distance.  It is everything about closeness.

Finally, a destiny offered both of us, proof that fate

can fuse desire with justice.

A touch.  It has already happened.  An understanding, woven.

Rising from emotion, admiration, enthusiasm.

The day after Russian Orthodox Christmas Day all the clouds

swirling above the world have a beautiful tendency.  All music

is somehow beautiful.

Why does anything matter?  My walk is an easy achievement;

your French fragrance moves on your body, my mind.

Sturm und Drang stretch us, if we let them.  Romanticism

is where my blood estimates its worth.  Let us be wild,

cut through temperature.

A word.  A seed.  The word.  Toss away your diminutives,

reality dances like water under the summer sun.

Luminous is our awkwardness of speech; it will soften.

Nurse your conclusions, marry from them our future.