van gogh takes up painting again, 122 years after his suicide
grey light
edged with purple
the age of dogs returned
the taste of frost
on metal
of rust
the motor grinding against
the sky’s blood
and nothing else
no heat
no motion
no gentle music
a language
but not one you recognize
whispers and screams
nothing in between
and your hands numb
the fingers cracked
and bleeding
the taste of gasoline
a simple violence and
you swallow
