The Dream is in Black and White

something is telling me

it’s supposed to be in colour.

scrambled reflections

on rainy streets; mangos and strawberries;

lit fluorescent in the night market;

A crash from the intersection

less than a block away rips into

this scene like hot metal,

exploding through my head,

pulling me with it into waking life

and out of bed with a dervish of sheets

as I fumble through the Venetian blinds

to peer out into the night.

The street is quiet.

It is well past two

but I can’t convince myself

I dreamt the whole thing.

Then,

just out of sight,

behind the Royal Trust building

a single orange light blinks on and off against a gathering smoke.