The Trial

Lady with Fan, Klimt 1918.jpg

[Lady with Fan, Klimt, 1918]

The Trial

Go and ancient bad a dame to face a leg.

Label lint and tight and slooze her breast.

The father’s loan destructs and she fails on all of him.

Blackened arch tower o let him in.

An episodic, epitaphic sing.

No more? That’s so certain cool and cagey,

beards the other, cries for life. Headless pincer

ricks and rides, laves his body, shakes herself

to languish chords, trebles bone deep claims

only she can ever dance.

Bring the plant in from the cold.

Water it.

No touch could be land. How can the footless

ride New York? Bleed the deeper easy,

Play the billow lift and knock it wide! Slept to heal

but hell blamed closer when she did that.

Tilts were everywhere.

Rusty apes held her dog–leashed to faults,

dragged. Sparks sailed a curtain of God’s breath.

The walk was hers and humped dong-led.

Tall blazers nailed her stiff to blame.

Not even the bed had palings

But spine to spine a lane of rings unfurled

the laser length of her alone at wet door’s edge.

Hailed her open bubbled moan

with age’s warts but that was small

as sane was ranked.

Help was there and she caught it.

Nursed it out of nippled youth

She came near and o in such simple touchings of free and bequeathed; breathed into the other

Mangled blame wrapped in silk order and brilliant colors–orange, fuschia, mauve–rose in a fan out her neck, tapered pheasant feathers long above. Fingers nipped in clacks of gold, filly-free, sailing sinews whaled the breast. Hips lapped hills. And the woman. And the woman. Failing to clothes.


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