Obviously it's winter. You're in a duffel coat,
which hides your shape. I'm lighting your fag.
There's something touching about the way we stand,
our young bodies, you leaning toward me.
We're outside the Angel Café. I'm turned away
from the camera, a back, a raised arm, a hand
holding a lit match: but you can't tell it's me.
Someone says, black and white, you can't beat it.
Look at those paving stones. You can almost feel
that dusk. It's superb. Look at that lettering. I loiter
near 'Angel Lane Couple', hoping to be recognised.
But they're more interested in the dusk. The figures
make it, someone says. And I suppose we did.