well dance in the moonlight,

alongside sports cars and love songs.

not really dancing per se,

Every sip,

Every sneeze,

and still getting used to the insects trilling,

horns blaring, and Berber carpet riddled with sand and discarded voices,

From the cars or from the orchestra , from the lights on the roof, wherever.

being broadcast from somewhere, wherever,

being projected from somewhere, wherever.

From the window, where we can barely see the orange tree,

we are still getting used to it ,

getting stuck to keys,

getting stuck to one another,

and our ragged veins,

and the barely visible orange tree.

At the intersections, a crossroads,

waiting in the car for chorus practice to start, staring blankly across the street.

and the sports drink

spilled long ago, mopped up poorly with paper bags,

and I sang my heart out after that.

not really singing , per se,

more like spinning then actually singing.

Everything matches, wrong.

and everyone was singing, wrong.

everything is orange.