[Lady with Fan, Klimt, 1918]
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.
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.