Carpe Diem in Balmain (Homage to Horace, Odes, 1.11) How can you better say what you now feel than with a ruby blush over evasive dimples and one sly flutter of emerald eyelashes? Here, you sit on blue bottle-crates, close to him and to the paving dust. Here the labrador, moored at the fumes of the four four four bus, wags his tail at the scent: One macchiato. One cappuccino. Now look around. Let your arms go. Let go listening to this boy’s lively voice. Look at those two who slowly walk holding hands that are…
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