Second

So much fiction happens in our rooms,

now that the Viennese artbooks rot away, barefaced,

the history of objects too sincere, too object

in their sprawl. In his life, Klimt never painted a self-portrait.

It is hard to understate our suits of merit,

how even the brothers fail to see each man—

a series of galleries, each whole, at the

spine of my bed. I am unbelieving that past.

Then, I was a good man. The belief

that I was second of all good men,

dressing endless hydrangeas, reloading

jokes about teenagers at the public gardens,

about how love is a weight, but how love is never

a weight. To hold the pages is to see

the end of time, and still not understand.

Nobody plays it as it lays, except, the machines

with their self-portraits and memories of brushstrokes,

correcting themselves over the past tense.

Yes, yes. I have never finished

the complete paintings, but neither

has he: the leaves of gold

dusk in their gowns, their gems

stalling the light. What I want is

of that now. Already, I am reaching out to you.

Don’t hold back.