The Gift

He cut off his ear, that story in time,
Vincent, later the locals’ fou roux,

a manic, in delirium, brushing oil on
carton, and canvas, around Provence.

He left the internal, and the eaters’ dour,
to the landscape lunacy of colour,

a brush-dabbed constellation,
of his very centre, Rue du Bout d’Arles:

A road of girls, and brothel doors,
over screaming complaints of whores,

to intolerance, in House Number One,
a late request of Rachel, for her a parcel,

a remembrance of him, a part of him,
in Gethsemane’s cut and betrayal:

Gauguin had left, and a knife
of violence upon himself.

Dr. Rey noted, a severed artery,
and a hat disguising his slice.

Van Gogh walked to the girl, in the brothel,
To gift her him, that which needing healing.

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