Gauguin
From the outside looking in,
the ground is a splotched fingerprint in blood
and the curved bar of women bent like Zs
is the windowsill you look through into a room
that bursts with shining things.
You see beyond a land of black and white
to a place where the cost of color
will be a touch to the hollow of your thigh
and the rot of a blessing on your tongue,
at a man and a blue angel with bourbon wings.
Your sight is stuck like love in the throat’s nib.