by Charles Bane, Jr.
Vincent carries his paints, canvases
and a hat early, for the sun’s harshness
is unfeigned and when he is mad, Vincent
lays like a boy with his leg wrapped
across a spot the sun cannot mock and burn.
If you’ve been mad you know
the sublimity of the poor who beat a river
into the deepest orange with unwashed
finery and whose backs were drafted by
the asylum dweller with a grace
bestowed carelessly at sundown.