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William Stephenson

Dreams are scenes from unrelated movies spliced.
Shouting a name on repeat you sprint down a street
rushing after a lover whose face flows like water and

Cut you’re sat in a Costa Coffee with Leonard Cohen. 
He’s sipping a latte, a drink you’re certain he’d detest
in waking life. Cohen’s bitching about the Coldplay –   
Everglow, you think – that dribbles from the speakers.

Your brain need only shoot a scene then Cut.
But one night the cut won’t stop. No light
succeeds. No Cohen, no Coldplay, no latte.
Not even a half-eaten granola bar for Christ’s sake.

We’re talking Blank here, capital B, silent no-film
between scenes, extended how long? Exactly.
Now dream a lover whose face flows like water.