The fledgling was concerned with space and leap, biology and myth.
Flesh and mist, obelisk and hysteria.
The way the lovers looked up endeared them.
(The way they looked before they both became aether.)
They brought a blanket to the glass which stretched from floor to ceiling.
They looked up and impossibly up at the vanishing points, the angels gathering.
The Tower of the Winds, the Four Directions, the Room of the Meridian.
They were an inch from falling. (Their bellies and their floating breasts.)
Their loveliness scared them and they'd risen inside themselves,
praying.
The roofling picked that day to ransack the city. The fronds of the towers rustled.
The sun shone on the lovers and crept along their bodies in perfect disks.
Time itself had been perfect for nearly three thousand years.