i think that cars stripe the work of van gogh
why else would his skies blink with hazy headlights?
automobiles are printed beneath the paint
suffocated by his sunny swirls, the glowing aura of nightly freedom
decking the walls of his work, and each one like a punch
and every watcher searching for a tiny glimpse into
the metal of the modern world, but defeat dries the eye.
yet i can only think all of this, sitting by a sky less magnificent
compacted by a blinking square of my own
and waiting for the lights to glare green.
here the oil of the tires paint the night into the road
the stars glowing like stickers on the pavement
and how i long for the car bottoms to sweep the ground once more
and to smoke the skies with gasoline whispers
but the traffic light is the color of blood
reminds me of battlefields, makes me want to
tear the crimson orb out of its socket, force emerald into its innards—
they don’t tell you about that in the starry night.
or maybe it’s intended, all of these lights like arteries
halting a second or ten to stare at the wonder of the sky:
it’s not van gogh’s, but it’s mine.