Which colour?

I say, “I had a lovely dream.”
“Which colour?” is all you ever ask.
“Red,” I say. “A lovely red.”
Like fireworks lit with incense sticks.
Like phoenix cremating into birth.
Like bleeding tree barks for bleeding days.
Like potash fingers on gardening jeans.
Like breezy grass on Orangutan skin.
Like boxers spitting into the ring.
Like fried garlic peeled with bitten thumbs.
“A lovely dream indeed,” you say.

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