Those who don't believe in this sun here are real infidels.
--Vincent Van Gogh, from a letter to Theo.
A blur of river flood and heat lightning,
a corpse lies immobile in a winter field,
yellow light flashes, distracts the eye,
water burbles in a dirty stream.
Trickling into the Devil's Icebox,
over rounded creek stones
where crawfish and green frogs
pause careless sentinels over waterbugs.
Silver fish spawning beneath my
own private Sun of Arles,
imprisoned in the realization
life is a dreaming god's nightmare.
Paint hardens on heavy loaded brush,
color expresses itself in words,
images dye, an unkind corruption.
The trees are looming violet
as the sun shrieks Damn Yellows,
my harsh words, destructive lights,
green lichen climbs unmilled stone.