Never trust a psychologist with dreams:
rather take your heart and leap from the cliff.
Seawards, surfwards, down, down, into the green,
cold, ceaseless swells. Plunge to the hippogriffs
and mermaids. Fall to a bed of Dover
sole, submerge to sand and sleep, landless
brow restive, recompressed. Clutch the clover
leaf he picked a second more, float your hands,
exhale a sheet of bubbles and believe
in campfires, wish for close, flu-beaded skin
of another's fever. Let the tide sieve
your bones in the mackerel shoals and bring
you back to shore unpearled, unassessed. So
fall then, down, down, seawards, for fires and flu.
Matthew John Williams