They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed
He has just caught her there and holds her still

Her gown
has slipped down off her shoulder
He has an urgent hunger
His dark head bends to hers hungrily
And the woman the woman turns her tangerine lips from his
one hand like the head of a dead swan draped down over his heavy neck
the fingers strangely crimped tightly together
her other arm doubled up against her tight breast
her hand a languid claw clutching his hand which would turn her mouth to his
her long dress made of multicolored blossoms quilted on gold
her Titian hair with blue stars in it
And his gold harlequin robe checkered with dark squares
Gold garlands stream down over her bare calves & tensed feet
Nearby there must be a jeweled tree with glass leaves aglitter in the gold air

It must be morning in a faraway place somewhere

They are silent together as in a flowered field upon the summer couch which must be hers
And he holds her still so passionately holds her head to his so gently so insistently to make her turn her lips to his
Her eyes are closed like folded petals

She will not open
He is not the One

Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt
-Lawrence Ferlinghetti