I get a measure here of solitude when the street turns in
& the night is soft & distant.
I hear the blue light of a siren dying, & in the silence,
the corrugated iron clawed by the cold fingers of the plum tree.
This is my table in the corner, photographs, postcards
bought on holiday; the body of Christ
post crucifixion; de-nailed, tender – it’s queer
to think of him that way – & other memorabilia:
a Madonna, for instance, presented after a funeral.
I remember because i’m swayed now & then,
believe for no reason. Even Immoral things.
I react i think to rational politics, the nightmare
of production-production: i’m for the risen Christ,
the soft night; the flashing blue light in the distance.