Trafalgar Square Poem by Ballerina With Fins

I told you I dreamt
of running (flying?) down Trafalgar Square,
arms outstretched, my mind's
eys swallowing the dozens hundreds of
pigeons scattering in the cold air, my tingling
fingers capturing tiny feathers that teased;
so ugly, yet so tremendous a sight.

You, voice muffled under the bedclothes,
tone a mixture of disgust and sympathy;
called it a silly dream.

But I say (and still say) my dreams exist
and they are what makes my life
worth living, are they not?

Just like every silly pigeon has a
hideous, pulsating, terribly vulgar,
beautiful beating heart.