He sits, his brush clasped in fingers numbed by
cold, and stares at the evening sky as though
it might pull off its hinges with a cry
reminiscent of ravens in the glow
of early morning and soar down to take
him to heaven on jewel-encrusted wings.
Vincent watches the light dance on the lake,
blind-eyed to the crowds passing by, he clings
to the strange comfort that comes with the stars,
watching as midnight leans on the tired
horizon like a friendly drunk. As Mars
spins in the unmapped distance, admired
sights appear on his canvas, and he thinks
he knows the thoughts of the sun as it sinks.
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