The magnetic moonlight, the metallic moonlight.
I turn up the thermostat on Dodge February 0
and I down a Special Export.
You're out confirming the dimmer switch, an all night light,
an alkaline moon, a chemical moon.
The graveyard stones name several unrelated Millers.
I bussed past them this early evening
in a blizzard with the children from the retarded school down
the street.
The streets snowed in like a canal.
A case like Van Gogh is impossible today.
There's a filter on the sun, the snarled moon,
the journalistic moon.
I am a sentimental lover, who would sit through a storm
to paint the horizon, the charcoal moon, the whey moon.
Driving home after your evening engagement,
do you feel glamorous?
You are.
And I can't wait to touch your face and neck.
Who would lie down and love the Earth and the Earth tones?
Your dark auburn hair to your shoulder and creamy belly
below, rosy white.
Above all else, the figure, the figure in the landscape.
In church?
Even in church, the figures in church,
the potato moon, the moon of the poor.
Vincent Punk, Vincent Victorious,
Vincent the Bohemian, Vincent the Great.
But I want it to make sense.
It's about love.
I want to announce that each time we go down
on each other tenderly, we hike out
in late autumn or early spring before really Earth's
opened up.
Hands stiff, embracing three paint tubes, blue, red, yellow.
And I don't think, how bad is the pain?
It's portable.
It was born in February.
Blue, black, orange, green, red, gray, the temptation
is to stand out in a June rain and enjoy it for itself.