Oh, to float on a Klimt canvas,
outlined in undulating graphite,
wrapped in ephemeral cloth,
rapt in pleasure,
revealed and revealing,
captured in that private liminal space
between self-awareness and the intense eye of the artist,
Japanese paper skin-smooth,
soft as the curve of shoulder,
the smile of calf,
the delicacy of breast,
the heat of belly.
Nothing but air supports us,
we who look away or are lost completely behind closed eyes
in the buoyant lift of ecstasy,
levitating off the sofa,
off the page,
off the scented heap of bedclothes and sweat,
off any and all traces of the one who has placed us here,
turned our cheek just so,
lifted our chin,
spread out our hair,
draped the tapestry in careful folds,
moved our hands,
positioned our legs,
shifted the light so that he sees us exactly as he needs to,
keeps us here as long as it takes him
to penetrate every inch,
spend himself in every line,
until he’s worn down his charcoal to a blackened nub
between his fingers
and we, the half-cloaked or uncloaked,
the unnamed ones,
float in our own reverie,
fall in love with the one whose eyes penetrate more deeply
than a body can ever reach.