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.
Dionissios Kollias lives and writes in Brooklyn.
