No matter which
way you look at him
Van Gogh is not looking
at you (the viewer). He
is looking at himself.

All vision is internal.

Young workers walk
city streets in thin t-shirts,
thin worlds on their thin
backs, such mid-day risk.
But papers must be filed,
admissions made, forms filled.

Duchamp, Tzar, Magritte and
Dali point and laugh at
elevated trains rushing past
bedrooms where
exquisite corpse
unfold.

That Paris street scene.
A single moment forever
in photographic gray.

A man's back moves into
view. The couple's eyes
look across the street at
some unknown motion.

We are always with them
now. In their conversation,
their dark clothes, cold
bones, slight smell of
cigar and wine. Rain
slicked pavement.

The Green Table
waits for us all
and I go to bed full
of the possibility of
death.