By Paul Dylan

Pink, blue sky of College Road

tunnels through my mind,
rows of houses joined together
as a modern retro paradise.

Walls are down when we are just ourselves.
Without rent, blade, you’ll slice a grapefruit,
show me inside. Babe, my tranquil eyes

stream over your back like twilit rainbows.

In the dark tunnel of blue faces I hear a podcast
on boreholes and the imperialist world system.
When you slip in the echo of tricolour // why
colour, know what they told you by the bay window:

There’s more than glass between sudden
raindrops and supermarket roses, there’s

drunk philosophers and physicists singing

outside lies within and belongs with you.

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