Starry Night

Verse on Van Gogh

A flame blazing black
flicks away at
the wings of my skies.
Your wounds will once
be burning stars, it says.

I resist:

Ghosts they are
of whirlwinds drained,
coiling out toward
second death.

They’re but rains
unfallen,
lurking to swamp
a child asleep
wet-cradled in
that house awake.
They sell dreams
to the shrunken men
living off sweat and
rotten seeds.

Lights won’t descend,
they never will.

Let them burn,
all of them,
up in the brain
of infinity.
Touch them not,
none of them,
with fate’s stately pen.
They all loathe a
death by ink.

There’s always my
own dawn to
kill them with
an orange stab.

Spires aspiring to impale
trust and hearts
have grown good
at the game.
Never rage too high:
A sad black cypress
stands no chance.

*A tribute to Starry Night, the painting by Vincent van Gogh.