Constantine takes the wheel

August cobbles burn beneath threadbare sandals

in an English cathedral city, nausea on hold

as we slip between race-going top hats, 

raising a glass to Emperor Constantine and auld lang syne

in a subterranean tavern unknown to the Revenue,

comparing paperback and bric-a-brac plunder,

charting a thousand ways of not discussing

the ward where a friend awoke on Thursday,

or how the wild nights lose their thrill at forty,

that old dream of an ocean house fast fading,

his arm hard around my shoulder, he smiles-

You’re only here to feel better about you.

In darkness, distance slips free of geography,

progress an illusion, an incipient car crash,

accelerator floored towards red flag badlands

where black dog meets the Roman Empire.