Venice

Two fingers of tequila in the jar

ripple to “New Year’s Day” on repeat.

The blue plastic mermaid,

arms akimbo on the jar rim,

dips her tail

into a hot pink lip print.

Barefoot on cold concrete

at three o’clock in the morning

in paint spattered pajamas

and a red plum derby,

he drapes one leg over the arm

of the rose velvet settee

peering through layers

of acrylic illusions

at the phantasm

hiding inside his vision.

The chimera arrives late.

Stepping from her sulky

in slippers of gauze

she caresses his forehead,

rests her breasts on his neck,

whispers his desire

against his temple.

So he rises,

picks a brush from his quiver,

a tube from the armoire,

and returns to the hunt

by the moon’s brilliant beam.

Sybilla

6/21/14