The brain knows that the Queensland Poetry Festival is on this weekend and that I am a mixture of nervous and excited. I hope to see a couple of old friends and to hear the words of some new ones. I hope to remember the best story I know and the hardest one I’ve ever written.
It knows this because a field of Morris dancers looks for a clean white shirt in my old cupboard, waving irons and taxidermy foxes in an Iraqi oil field. I hear environmental minimalists playing the djembe and a one armed man is dancing – fourth position, fifth position, hollowing himself with repetition and line. And then I wake up.