They are the only ones I have.

My favorite is the one at “The Bean”

In Chicago. (Nobody remembers

Its real name).

We are twisted and stretched

In the contours of steel

And look like Picasso’s Guernica.

In Italy, we are sitting on cast iron chairs

Outside a café with ochre yellow walls

and only the tops of our heads in view.

We almost had the Quattro Fumi

In the shot, but not quite.

It’s February. Me in my black coat

And you with your pink hat,

Standing in the shadow of the

Golden Gate on the Sausalito side.

We make ourselves ghosts in front of

The city behind us when we move too soon

On the train home from Monserrat, we are tired

But we force a smile for a moment

Just long enough to remember

That everything but the travel was good

On Valentine’s day, we stood on the top of

Il Duomo in Florence.

The sun turns our faces a pinkish-orange.

The long, purple shadow of the basilica

Stretches across the city behind us,

And the streetlights begin to flash on

Like illuminating fireflies.

We, in our bundled coats and

Her smile that burns away the cold.

I stretch my arm out to put all of the

Pixels of the moment in my pocket.

We watch the sunset, knowing that

Soon it would be too dark to see.