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(van Gogh by Toulouse-Lautrec)
My hand records far more than I see.
This late afternoon Vincent sits
alone in a corner
of the Tambourin Cafe.
I set out cardboard, pen and chalk.
Air coils around him. White light
bleaches his red beard
starches blue wall shadows.
Ginger eyes often reflect liquid terror
but today I capture impenetrability.
The steam of dying rises from inert
arms. In stark contrasts, with rotating
rhythms, I assume the raw
convulsions of his brush. Sketch
reckless lines. Use bold suffusions of
sulfurs, malachite and cyanics. Dusk
devours my view as I rough in a glass
of absinthe. Vincent, leaning on
brittle steps, drifts into the
darkfall, a man already forgotten.
(Mad Poets Review, Fall 2001)
