I don't think I have ever seen an almost empty transatlantic flight. very strange.

On rooftops, between Vivaldi and cheap sparkles
we sang to the setting sun, somewhat lost
hand found hand under patchwork blankets
in beech wood gardens, curled against frost
comfortably exhausted we found our sins
on each other's lips and perfumed skins

like young romans, or barbarians, if you will,
under loud applause at the gargoyles mass
our bodies swirled to new, exquisite vinyl
we were first in street cafes, less the cats