In some artparty scene
she brayed barely nineteen
with stilettos and a give-a-fuck lean
pausing the room to be illuminated and
carelessly dragging an empty bottle of wine.
When the mermaid set free
with shoulder length aqua-marine
her campfire creaking notes felt mean
eye-smiling shark-like through floorboards
of cross-legged men with faces like twine.
In the hallway or slouching mezzanine
a group of strangers eagerly agreed
that though false it was their favorite thing
to pretend to fall in love and sing blue
the chest of porcelain with time.
and i don’t know
why no one knows
why things are pretty
i just want to
brush up against a
soft serve sun.
