Thank you for the video you sent at 1am this Monday morning via Facebook Messenger, of you,

dancing to music that sounded like a boring haunting. You did some really weird poses and always

seemed to begin the jumps prematurely. The video you sent was actually a video of you videoing

someone else’s phone, on which the video of you dancing was playing. Does your friend not know

how to send you the video? It can’t be that hard, but maybe they were out of wifi range, because

you insist on living in that inland hillocky place of damp fleece, where the people seem to get

thrown up and left, bleached and out of place, mad as inland driftwood. Last time I was there you

had left your holy husband and were preaching in the stumbling streets. You’d chucked all of your

front room onto your front lawn - lounge chairs with secret springs, warped occasional tables, a

bookcase that sagged even empty - put your feet up there and watched the world go by and

performed midnight choreography with the trees shaped like lampposts and the angels shaped like

stars. Were you giddy while you were dancing, then or now, or just when you sent me the video of

the video of you dancing?