The Innocent Ones (for Vincent Van Gogh)

i am with the innocent ones

the ones who never willed fame

the ones who understand the suffering of women
their kindness beneath the shame

the ones whose steps
become apparent in shy moments
barely audible fractions
solemn scrolls on dancing shoulders

the innocent ones
who wrote letters
to the day
to the hour
to colours

the ones who feared the winds
and the grumpiness of a father
the shackles of religion as they constricted a mother
into denying the art in her son

the ones who carried out a minor task
a craft they loved and which only they could do

the innocent ones
who could only try to understand how or why
doubt and uncertainty within their every sentence
like the cold sits in the mistral
like the ache in the vertebrae from an unkind comment


one does not await one's hour

moments approach

a poet cannot invent his reader
any more than gold can convince a thief

gingerly i walk these lost territories
stones jangling in my ripped shoe

i do not rue the day i left the path to sit under the olive tree
it was the day a canvas looked at me
and asked me to paint