far from Golgotha

you too, God, you are ill with me

I’ve wept your tears

not a policeman for nothing

it might have been the same bottle of gin

stained with gin

the image of George VI

dinner with the Commissioner

a house in Kent

when she’s gone I’ll be alone forever

imploring fingers

in the palm of his hand

the sounds of pain

the saint whose name no one can remember

a pair of rusting handcuffs