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.