We sit; watch an impressionist’s air over London.
Its sirens, gabble, bulbs, roar,
Rust, whistles, howls
Glory is light.

We’re suffocating, submerged in a tangerine,
bittersweet confusion of love
locked up with every withering dream below.

I’ve questioned what’s real when she blinks at me
and stopped existing  when she closed her eyes.
This sky is the blitz, the fire in six six six.

But in all time and space,
It is here that we're stuck.
And we’re stuck here together.