A BREAK FROM THE ASYLUM TO THE FIELDS

Cypresses, irises, almond blossoms it seems—
each one set alight by something in your heart, your mind—
something in your eye, your starry starry eyes, sparking
the pilot light in your lonely lonely soul.

Your brush is a torch dipped in bright pitch.

The trees, the fields living, dissolving
in forever-ebbing tides of sun-setting color,
your fever igniting
freezing master winds to melting mistrals of oily heat.

Wheat fields burning, churning,
shimmering amber waves of flame –
a charring blaze on your eyes’ sight.

Must you be mad to see such things
or
has seeing them made you so?

Unlike your many friendly and frequented ladies, this
harsh mistress of your senses daily threatens to leave you.

Alone,
you cannot satisfy your mind, your eye, your hands, your heart –
but of all your friends, your earlobe alone could you do without.

And that, perhaps, Gauguin’s
parting gift —

the fencing between you

making your bitter roommate your distant neighbor.