a morning spent staring at Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss;

They look occupied. Do you think

their hearts are as grabbed by gold

as their garments? Do you think his

lips, a sun rest, soldier from her

cheek to her lips to her eyelids?—

­

“I am paned. You are building me

in the vestibule as we blindly

absorb sensation. Sift me through

one of the spiraling galaxies on your

gown; stage me in your messy string

of stars.”

­

I do not grip to let go.

Cheeks, roses picked & pinked.

Perhaps you don’t see the next frame,

50,000 doves taking flight.

Here’s a piece of it;—

Hang it, be it.