You go home with a stranger, Michele from Milan.
Using the moonlight from his ceiling window,
He traces a bruise on your hip bone,
Which glows like a flounder on the ocean floor.

In the morning, before you climb Arthur’s Seat,
He makes you an espresso
And points out the merging sea and sky;
The same gale grey.

Why did you come here alone, in the dead of winter—
Only to end up surrounded by a stranger’s cold china?
On top of Arthur’s Seat,
You barely balance against the wind.