Neon Street Light Through The Old Church Windows.

Think about piety and names like Hugo and Frances then think about the motor of flash photography and my name glitters on the pavements as fake tan runs off my legs, the California pervert who never left Houston Scotland, as big and bold as a sunset cutting through the curtain of a tattered flat in Zone 3.

Think about generosity and the gentle light straining through the stained-glass depiction of Paul then think about the way MAC makeup is caked under my eyes with my arms silky smooth and spread in the pink glow like an advertising billboard blocking out the view, hairless as an iPhone yet flesh and blood and bone and nerves.

Think about abstinence and scaly puritan limestone then think about the glass turquoise tubing over passive heads, the dribble of luminous canned liquid hitting permanently marked skin, sugar condensing into pores and smothering with sweetness, a taste for another tongue in dull candle radiance, skimmed of salt as another prayer is lit in waxy flame.

Think about forgiveness and copper pennies in the oak donation box as the rain pummels slate and the sound of sirens scream through the sigh of the organ and the wind shudders through the doors like your warm hands through mine on the freezing cliffside staring at the jagged bottom and it’s like those bolted frames are being kicked in over, and over, and over again.