When Van Gogh's lobe
fell like a funnel to the floor,
deftly he traded razor for brush,
painted potato eaters
and outlined two cut sunflowers
on a white table in the moonlight.

Blood dripped onto his shoulder
as he pondered this and created that,
drawing, splashing everything,
knowing without question
where to dab and why to splatter.

How could he not, when already
he was planning a starry night over the Rhone?
Answers grew like tubers in him, seeking
the tips of his fingers as he painted oaks
soaked in the blood of Christ
to represent the human fall,
even as holy dust covers the newly dead,
with whom anguish makes its bed.

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