The Sanatorium at St. Paul de-Mausole
Wendy Drexler
Van Gogh weeps and washes
his brushes with the tip
of his tongue and his tears.
He walks into the assaulted
fields. Cicadas clench him
like fever. Too close
to fire, he begins to make
fire from the swill
of olive trees shaken like silver
spoons inside a drawer
of his mind. Again he shifts
from foot to foot, finding
a place for hunger, the ravished
backs of stars, devouring clouds,
nailbeds of sullen yellow
sky, the jagged iron
hooves of mountains,
rearing. He vaults over the pain he has made
of himself a little less now.