Klimt was a kind of crooked wicket
out on a creaky limb
in Cricket City (rim
of Rimini, Parisian rivulet).
Gold. Vienna veins of Ravlin
violins (we were there,
Agnes). Do not compare.
It’s only an American Robin
Redbreast, hooded, yodeling...
he’s calling out your name.
Not Stephano (fair game
for Fame) nor Nunzio (clipping
the locks that flood across your face)
– though they are near. The Boot
strides on. The man is moot.
Your Crown is Everwhirr – mesh-lace
of spy-veil, ambling the source...
a poverty of materials
in a land of burials
& sunshine (Italy, of course).
Klimt limns the anguish in your eyes.
Through vales of Solomon
or Sheba, all the broken
kingdoms, poppy-fields (Grandpappy’s
ripe Epiphany). Pain circulates
through straitened means
somehow – corny Earth-scenes
beyond our ken (Thanksgiving plates).
Gustav Klimt, Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer (1907)