Sunday, March 29, 2020

Van Gogh

There is comfort
In letting
The dragon dig to China,
In listening for
The disembodied voice
Of the armadillo lady,
Phyllis.

It's so much more sensible
Than what is happening now
On the ground,
The emotionally-precise,
Hideously-false
Stories
That kick up so many allergens
On this clear, blue day.

The goat is pacing.
The lies are piling up
And falling harmlessly
To the cliffside.

Her expression
Has never changed.
It's more peaceful
In this state they call death,
The people of the dream
Bereft of thorazine.

The poppy bloom
Might as well be the sun,
As the passion flower vine
Might as well be the wind.

There's a picture book of Vincent
From an old estate sale,
Filled with ghosts and dust
But now
Every picture's been torn out,
Carefully, so as not to rip
That delicate face.