Vincent

Vincent
 
His flesh and bones have thinned,
Hair yellow as the tang
Of ale foam in his beard,
 
Gauche and Germanic
In this land that is
Smooth, autumnal, cruel.
 
Art and lies,
Art and lies—
The words of old letters,
 
Tipped into the fire,
Still burn
In his eyes
 
Licking the air
Then devoured.
She said she loved him—
 
Art and lies, both beautiful,
Both treacherous,
Both over the edge of sanity,
 
Like the whirlpools of her skirts
Thrown out around her legs.
It should have been a poem,
 
A painting, a eulogy,
Even a death—not this
Slow criminal creep,
 
That stoops the spine,
Splinters the skull, bites
Like bitter herbs.
 
Through such colors
He makes himself
Heard.
 
What will be preserved,
Boxed in frames,
Is a lie:
 
Spacious marble rooms,
Academic discussions,
Dust in the wake of passion—
 
What was it like to live
In cluttered,
Coal-blackened rooms
 
With mushroom people
Eating fists of potato?
Cracks in the walls,
 
Shoes in the streets,
Guzzles of brown drink
And slabs of black bread.
 
Only the intricate flowering magic
Of paint wings him
To all-consuming bliss
 
But the poppy-red splatter
Will be remembered far longer
Than elbows on slanty window-sill
 
Than earthen jug of great-head flowers
Than broken yellow-stalked fields
Under blackbird skies,
 
Or the small shy beauty
Of her shoes peeking
From under his bed.
 
Now she looks out
Through the frameworks
Like a frail silk flag
 
Waving a warning
Leaving in lilac sky
An odd, unfitting slash of cadmium red
 
High and far
Above the poison-black
Signature: Vincent