Vincent, Vincent, the well's run dry, summer and fall, the wintry blast.  In the 
world of the Master of Wood, the unfinished journey into the self darkens 
whatever light a painting’s signature gives; there is ambiguity in all forms and in 
all shapes, and in the small wooden place of the heart, where time creeps in and 
out, sudden voices blur into sudden voices. 

Morning’s version of twilight, lighter, same cold, 
A parenthesis of blue encasing a patchwork  
                          of unassembled colors.  

The sky today beneath my hand copies out 
The frail lights of dust sliding past inflections 
                     of indigo in the gray dull air.  
  
Noontime’s auburn hair tangled in wet light.  
White dirty ermine in clouds.  How long 
             the day sits cold in my hands, 

How late the night, how blurred our lives— 
             so many mute days lost upon love.  

Near the sea’s edge, I play at the creation 
And lose another creature 
                      to the hapless. 

The cold hard facts draw up on shore, 
Wet light falls and trees green into blue— 

The brush in the mind fills in shadows, 
                           then erases them, 

Love’s hush, hush in the grasping long stretches 

Of dark.  Creased and weathered, 
The frame wavers and whips—it holds time 
                   like an empty hand holds love 

Like a man dragging stars through the night sky, 
Sudden line and streak—then loss.