On Starry Night...
Eulogy for the Unrequited
… and when I could not walk up the hill
to carry my colors to you, heavy with yellow,
strokes drying as clay to lock me in place,
burdened of blue, you painted the ground to meet me
… and then you would not listen when I whispered
my gratitude onto your blazing moon, when I slithered
through the streets, my belly bleeding gray, my tongue
darting out to catch the aroma of gentle desperation
… and I pointed Him out to you, Vincent. I showed you
which star bloomed under your paintbrush in honor of Him,
how your hands were His hands for a fraction of a second,
how you were set right in His mind to build that silent village
… and I give you see-through slices of my heart, my heart, Vincent!
discarded rag full of mistakes, stolen from the wooden table,
hidden in my bosom to be held up as your masterpiece for me,
but I am there, Vincent, I am there: in your sky, the corpse on the hill,
… and I lay stems at your grave, worn of your colors, and when
they found you, my perfume hung invisible in the room and they
inhaled me, Vincent, they took me inside of their bodies,
atoms bursting in their lungs, tears uncried for a master
… and every master must have a servant and I served you, loved
you, staring at the places we had been together, bodies pulled tight
over life, like your canvas. And you painted me, Vincent, only once,
as the dead tree straining to a thing never to be pierced by its darkness.
… and when I could not walk up the hill
to carry my colors to you, heavy with yellow,
strokes drying as clay to lock me in place,
burdened of blue, you painted the ground to meet me
… and then you would not listen when I whispered
my gratitude onto your blazing moon, when I slithered
through the streets, my belly bleeding gray, my tongue
darting out to catch the aroma of gentle desperation
… and I pointed Him out to you, Vincent. I showed you
which star bloomed under your paintbrush in honor of Him,
how your hands were His hands for a fraction of a second,
how you were set right in His mind to build that silent village
… and I give you see-through slices of my heart, my heart, Vincent!
discarded rag full of mistakes, stolen from the wooden table,
hidden in my bosom to be held up as your masterpiece for me,
but I am there, Vincent, I am there: in your sky, the corpse on the hill,
… and I lay stems at your grave, worn of your colors, and when
they found you, my perfume hung invisible in the room and they
inhaled me, Vincent, they took me inside of their bodies,
atoms bursting in their lungs, tears uncried for a master
… and every master must have a servant and I served you, loved
you, staring at the places we had been together, bodies pulled tight
over life, like your canvas. And you painted me, Vincent, only once,
as the dead tree straining to a thing never to be pierced by its darkness.