by Neil Fulwood
Almost forgotten on waking, it begins
piecing itself together as I stumble downstairs
and coax hot water out of reluctant taps.
Edging pieces assemble into an outline
as I leave the house. My subconscious
rummages in the box during the drive to work.
Sections coalesce. An image gains definition
in the upper right, where the stamp would be
if this were a postcard from the other side.
Maybe it is. Mid-morning, the picture’s formed.
The dream rolls its fog back over me.
A field or hillside grey with mist, and Tony was there.
Tony, a decade or more gone but everything he taught me
about poetry coded in my fingerprints,
small proofs littering the evidence room of the keyboard.
Tony, grinning at my incomprehension,
my burblings in the key of but you’re dead.
Tony making himself at home in my dream,
grinning as if to say Maybe it’s the other way round.
Neil Fulwood is the author of film studies book The Films of Sam Peckinpah. His poetry has been featured in Art Decades, Lunar Poetry, The Black Light Engine Room and others. He runs film revue blog The Agitation of the Mind (misterneil.blogspot.com).