A Van Gogh,
described as such
from being
an article to some,
hung near a corner
of the large
high ceilinged space.
I was the only
one
in front of it.
The room was sparse.
My breathing
just short of a pant,
my eyes
watered.
The scene was
a wild ravine,
whitewater
frenzied. I swear
I heard
him talking.
His misery
right there
encased
in medium.
He
screamed.
He shifted
turned moved
convulsed
his expression
from my
exact vantage
was panic.
The twisted
strokes
clinched teeth
crying
“goddamn!”
with greengray
white caked ghost
blue
squirming swirled
over and over
and
over
and
over.
(Boston, MA, July 2010)
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