La tristesse durera toujours
“The sadness will last forever,”
Van Gogh’s final words.
Perhaps he saw apotheosis
in the vast wheatfields
where he stayed with Dr. Gachet,
as storm clouds of crows
darkened epileptic skies,
intoxicated by foxglove
lingering in the doctor’s left hand,
purple flowers dangling like vajras
from a bent green stem,
the other hand propped
against an organ severed
to stop the chiming whispers,
scintillating scotomas, immortality
haloed in postcards and pastiche,
loneliness: a melancholy man
grimacing in a blue coat, looking
past him, absorbed in wheatfields
against the hills, boundless as the sea;
fijin geel
delicate yellow.