I am not a sad girl

I am not a sad girl in a novel
nor a sad boy in collusion
nor a terminal perfusion
but I am alone
on this sweet day in Venice
where the glot is poly
and this year’s art is neither bonkers
nor simpatico
though as expected
a bit made up
perhaps all made up
like the face of any mermaid
with a mirror stranded on the sand
at the dawn of comprehension
I guess words might be superfluous
in glossy mags in which
the fonts have all the meaning
and the illustrations are holes
through which a spirit pours
but today it’s in the flesh
or at least in this pavilion
that I extend myself in praise
of the virtues of impropriety
the spectacles of grace
converted from dexterity
into mayhem with a silky edge
where the outcome of cosmic battles
between can and can’t can’t
quite yet be said