Lisa Hiton

Poured like heavy, silk horsehair over a ballroom railing, you
dangled, wielded your body as a brandished sword at the figure
below on the marble floor. In the dream, I watch the suspended
body hurtle through gala air, black and white film, the little
negative squares filling red. It's a silent movie, even at the crack
of skull on marble. I wake to an editing room, low reeling hum,
film spilling out of the jammed magazine, like silk.