[to Vincent Van Gogh]
cypress and star
and the wind soughs through the paintings.
a yellow wind;
the one of orphaned gold.
with heartache's topaz hardly dried yet
on the brushes, knife- the palette with its rare
hint of carmine,
of carmine that sobs like a rose in a gully washing rain
when the petals leave-
as if, they are bruising the sky.
as if, they are bruising the sky
as if, they are bruising the sky.
as if, they are bruising the sky
the milk glass galaxies strain against the blankest canvas
the executors have ever seen
and the hail of sorrow pelts in aquamarine's
distraught- summer-
and the crickets, who, because of you,
thought they were stars in the grasslands=
and that they sparkled-
simply-
cease to sing
mary angela douglas 1 july 2014;rev. 20 april 2015
