Daniel Liu

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.

jokes about teenagers at the public gardens,

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

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.

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

Poetry