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…