As Epiphany approaches, the devout converge on the cathedral to honour the stained glass windows in which Christ recycles his Christmas tree.

He sets out just before ten to six, ragged cloud breaking on a horizon of muddy pink, these subtle moments before sunrise the only element depicted with grisaille. He comes to a fork in the road. The more inviting left-hand branch leads to the Christmas tree plantation.

Marcus asked the group to picture their mind as an empty hill. Amy imagined her brain as a pillowy surface. No ridges carved by habitual thought. This morphed into a pockmarked block of cheese. Then to cheese trailed with mould. Then mould topped with her sister’s memoir which their mother referred to as the ‘bible of your sister’s money-making lies’. 

It’s not the moment, it’s after the moment and I see myself lying on the bed in orange light with you lying across my lap, your mouth still sucking in your sleep. I’m also asleep even though I have tried, I know I have tried not to, I know how important it is, and I see myself waking, checking my phone and realising it has been at least two hours, no more, many, many more hours of just lying there …

I rarely write things this real, was planning on writing nothing but poetry in Texas, but when someone tells you a story and your first and enduring thought is, Iggy Pop needs to hear this, what else can you do?