where all the leaves have faces
and all the stones are bones
the clouds are sleeping buddhas
and the bowl
the source of all
paints klimt patterns on the trees
who hold the platen of the sky like tentpoles
and all relations wink and flow and merge
into the endless empty fullness
stars stutter stammer twilight songs
and mother embeds klimt's visions in soft skin
traced by my lover in the moonlight
with his tongue
