in your technicolor dream,
your smile has a back side
and your back hand is weeping
and your teeth are in the right place
but your mouths are winking like wet cement making stars out of traffic lights

in your dream,
sex is squishing
and hitting is squishing
and kissing is smoking

inside the comfort of a worn chair cross the hall,
in the interval before the laugh track,
we can fight and fuck and find out it’s all poetry
only eyes locking into eyes looking into eyes
rainbow tunnels of furiously “we will keep going”