I wish Vincent van Gogh
had been fearless,
had painted through those floating stars
that swirled in a midnight sky
over a candlelit town and cypress trees,
or that he drew every branch and every leaf
on crooked trees, colored every shade
in wheat fields so yellow that crows startled above
into an impossibly blue sky.
I wish he had never left Paris,
or could be found still sitting in a sidewalk café in Arles,
or could have known, somehow,
how much his work is loved
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