By Matt Mosman

Here in August  
The air just sort of lies on you  
Like steaming barber's towels  
And you're sweating bullets  
From the minute you step outside  
To mingle your sweat  
With the hot stink of Vienna hot dogs
And Polish sausage and exhaust fumes  
And to mix your wordless noise  
With the snap of heeled shoes on pavement  
And the rumble and honk of diesel-engine taxicabs
With spitting, swearing drivers  
Who ferry masses a person at a time  
With their bags packed up like their lives  
To and from the heart which is  
An airport twice the size of your hometown
Where you have a value in yourself.  
But here you're a grain.  

The only true baptism requires immersion,
To be in it and it in you
Not Byzantium, then,  
But here--

Matt Mosman