Van Gogh

Exhaustion since the last golden dab
Inked out, leaving a stained and splattered
Pallet, dried out edges of hard pastels
Blurring together to adumbrate a chaos

Much like the mess on the easel: half-formed
Trees, monsters of gardens, roads that seem
To delineate sky, what might be earth
Or ocean; the boundaries are the canvass'

Edge; sometimes it seems to spill over, so incomplete
Is the street, a red woman's hair, the glint
Of a rearview mirror, the barely perceptible
Objects closer than they appear

At first. There are always beaches, escapes
Where the waves roar away and return and pink-skin
Coagulates, stretches out over the sand-bars
And cooks; but for me, that is not enough:

I am trying to perfect the imperfectable
Sky, to capture the glare of the sun
In a permanent gaze, to freeze the whole earth
In a delicate, ice-cream cold glaze.