Burano

On a French moon,
the plum stands out,

it is in Venice after all where the pink rose floats in the canal.

I ask, will I allow myself some relief?

A later addition to the canvas, attributed to classic, but not,

the Bride of Bacchus initiates herself and waits for his resurrection,
an altered state with a few brushstrokes of a paintbrush,
darkened, a direct gaze and a thin eyebrow.

I tuck my bed sheet underneath my mattress every morning.

This is a man’s chest, it beats.