The radio voice mumbles irrelevant thoughts. Iím driving
on the wet M56, driving until exit five. Four airports to go until the
next smile from her. Iím longing for a glimpse of my blue eyed demon. Farewell,
farewell land of shadows. The sky will never go out on me. Researchers
say "itís all chemical, eventually it will pass". Poets say "you canít
truly feel alive until you love somebody". Did science keep my plane from
crashing in Shremetievo? Did poetry help safely landing my mind? Science
is blind, but poetry is totally undiscerning.