The dreams that swim in rivers of sleep

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.

I thought it looked like a rat or mouse

running so quickly across the grass

but when I saw it near the house

and again it ran away very fast,

I could hardly credit that it was a bird -

a juvenile robin, breast not yet red.

Why didn't it fly? Just seems absurd.

A cat will catch it. Probably dead.

With pearls for teeth and ruby lips,

sleek jet black hair and emerald eyes,

with golden shoulders, ivory hips,

pale opal breasts and silver thighs

your beauty is so near divine,

no need for jewels, diamond mine.

"them", "they" and "their" for a single person

are ungrammatical and confusing

because those words are essentially plural.

The transgender world requires using

some new words for the new situation -

something singular just by fusing

"he" and "she" to breathy "shhe",

"him" and "her" to "hem" and "hir"

and "his" and "hers" to "hirs".

A little practice will make it clear(s) !

While reading

I thought to kill it with a clap

as it floated upwards to my face.

Another fruit fly from the plants,

a plague of Spring inside the room.

But then I saw how smooth the rise.

No flying insect's flitty flight

but aimed intently straight ahead.

And as it neared the legs came clear.

A tiny spider it appeared.

But how could it rise so steadily?

Convection current in the air?

Some invisible trailing hair?

Whatever, it climbed out of sight

to mount on glasses, eyebrow, skin?

A trivial moment of delight.

So many beautiful young women !

I look at them with hidden lust.

They of course don't look at me

or if they do, it's with disgust.

She wants

to be diaphanous as her dress,

an insubstantial spirit free

from all the disagreeable stress

of functioning biology,

to banish farts and faeces, sweat

and menstrual liquidity

but what I want is warmth in bed,

her smoothness and solidity.

She hopes her pungent perfumes quell

all hint of animality

but I prefer the ranker smell

of female sexuality.

Despite our differences I learn

to treat her dreams with gravity

and she endeavours in her turn

to live with my depravity.