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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.

6 thoughts to “reflex”

  1. Just that ‘when the street turns in’ drags the whole quiet evening down on me. The ‘de-nailed’ body, the ‘nightmare of production-production’. The flashing light and the resurrection, something flows mightily out of all this forlorn loveliness, amico. Bellissimo.

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