by Joanne Lowery
For lack of a better name, let us call
this darkness “Klimt.” True, squares
of white and gold tile his paintings,
naked fish blooming among flowers
that wink, bubbles on their way to nowhere.
Vienna had traded candlelight for electric chandeliers.
At times, a woman’s thin face, her simple legs,
her drying hair made him happy.
You — even you — turn a plastic switch
to make life meaningful.
Now beauty can be understood,
and the war that everyone knows is coming
sparkles in the distance like stars.