Vincent, 1889

one lonely candle burns in the window
of the lunatic asylum.
the sky slips into a silk chemise

behind a dark cypress tree
and spritzes herself with midnight oil
tonight is ripe for dancing.

the melody begins, hesitantly
at first, then growing, pulsing
filling the sky with golden light,

and all at once burning in feverish
swirls and twists and spirals,
the stars turning

incredible gymnastic feats, the moon
beaming, swelled with admiration (she’s chaperoning
from the corner, a glass of wine in her gloved hand)

oblivious to the spectacle above,
Saint-Rémy-de-Provence
tucks itself in, under the covers

 

of night.