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I think about your eyes –
the most Mars-like
on Earth,
heart-slides they cause,
each – several times larger than
the Solar System ,
dust and rocks of my workload
and fall down the busy Brussels cliff,
down to the wild meadow
where springtime is always,
waves of Alpine aroma.
Doing a little algebra,
I count the time it takes me
to fall from the top of the work mountain
to the edge of your Martian surface
– a milli-thought, a milli-letter,
a milli-effort, a milli-second
to get a spring day
on the red planet,
when I think about your eyes.