A dream about Martin Scorsese.
His era of extravagant eyebrows
A mustard-coloured wingback chair
A jaundiced gas fire, nicotine-stained at its centre, unlit:
My bedsit
Avenue Road
N6
1982
– So, says Martin
(manicured nails, cologne like toast burning)
– You have a story?
(jacket immaculate, cufflinks like jewels)
Removes his glasses, tames his eyebrows
(a miniature tortoiseshell comb)
– There is an idea
I’d like to run by you
– So
– So
– So
(a few more times)
– There’s a woman
Martin punches the air, jumps up
– Good! Yes!
Good beginning!
Bangs his fist
on the door
– A woman?
– A woman
– So
– So
What makes him leap
to my window
balloon out the nets?
Who owns the car
sounding its horn
on the street?
I know where I keep
my notebooks
the many
I will buy through the years
Martin is fighting his way
out of yellowing, nylon lace
For the rest of my life
the feeling
the breath
the beginning