Or is gender-blender better?

I glared slightly at the pants-less Dancer,
offering no words but a quick change in my
facial posture, a quiet "no" in the twist of my head,
a back-off when he shimmied up to
me in the dark. Content to stand with
arms down at my side, occasional
conversations with other dark forms,
declining to gain much attention.

I think he dances for me all the time
but I turn toward other things;
my virtuosic motions confined
to fountain strokes on leather-trimmed
pages with elastic bindings.

There is only the one Gender-Bender
inside us and all supra-gendered beings invoke
our originator's continual recreations;
the One who shifts best,
and he happily dons the masks we
offer to giggle and delight at our blind wanderings.
We are roving madmen arguing over texts
while she moves inside us
waiting for the music to begin.