THE VAN GOGH IN YOU

The VAN GOGH IN YOU

It steeps in starlight.
You feel it fall like freed water.
It bathes you in dopamine before dawn.
You take your breath from its whispers,
sitting like a sunflower in the corner.
Invisible by day and radiant by night,
it has a flame
that dances in all seasons.
It scurries from the rough
of young men's hands,   
from the smoke of opinion,
a cloud of ash floating
from a jagged cone.
When you press your ear to its heart,   
there is no note of any night.
And yet you call it nightly,
the possible oracle of an impossible song. 
But song is not the limit of its genius.   
The ear gorges itself on many frequencies.   
The fingers may caress
whatever key depresses.   
The lungs fill themselves
with various verses.   
The brain debates with no Coda.
It ripples the sea
like a new breeze,   
curls and peaks to many points.
You wait, unbated
to tangle in its tangents,
to scale the sails of silence
and read the ripples,
not as number,
but as Sine.