gleam silver through the surface, glide
downstream towards the flowing deep
of troubled currents in the tide.
In oceans of unconsciousness
the nightmares hide beyond the light,
ride luminescent, motionless
till they float upward in the night.
At dawn the flying fish that pierce
the waves of memory may strand
themselves; the subtle colours, fierce
eyes dim; their bones crumble to sand.
Our dreams are not for keeping; they
dive waters of forgetfulness
with bright scales irridescent in spray.
Dreams, like fish, should be always fresh.
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