Letter
531, Vincent van Gogh
“You
take its smooth substance into your mouth,
and it is as if the very darkness of the room
were melting on your tongue,” the milky glow
of skin and underneath, deeper than memory’s
lacklustre pretence there may be intoxication
as acidosis steeps through creases, rumpled sheets
on the bed. I’d like to say your fingernails trace
my spine and your cheek rests against my sleepy
eye, that I try to understand these moments mean
yellow is not simply yellow and blue can be more
than the blue of convoluted constellations,
those saturnine stars predicting how darkly we spin
with or without a complimentary cocoon.
