I carry your face in a mobile shrine
and take it out on the Underground.
Your digital eyes look into mine.
I change at Farringdon and I have changed.
Touched by you, my skin is kozo tissue,
my hair rose-perfumed ink,
my eyelids are gold leaf.
The woman on my right,
reflected in the window opposite,
takes on the stillness of an icon,
the boy across the way
lifts his cheek to be pure marble
sculpted in living light. Together,
we travel on into the night,
