The Starry Night on His T-Shirt  

The Starry Night on His T-Shirt  

those big swirls through the sky startle—Vincent’s vision
 must have been something much less than twenty / 
twenty to have seen stars that big.  church goers would 
think some revelation at hand, the second coming perhaps
 if the stars were that damned big.  from his window his view of the
trees shaped the trees like sheep.  and 
the rolling hills like the hips of a well-nourished woman.
the lights are on in many of the houses.  long loaves of bread being
pulled out of the oven, fresh bottles of Chablis, 
and little François recounting to papa his exploits 
with Marie, and papa laughing with a wide mouth
showing its contents, and maman’s brow forming its quiet frown, but
outside, a mourner on his way home carrying 
his bundle will step inside the church and lip a little prayer trying to
pray his way back to love and hope and, perhaps, 
the will to keep on.  those bushes that loom up like a fire, 
did you want us to see fire?  the fire in the stars is not
 enough, Vincent?  you had to lap our lenses with a flaming bush? 
eleven stars and a crescent moon, almost a horseshoe that moon, all
swirling in halos.  Vincent, you have painted the wind that raises a
storm across the sky.  and now his T-shirt bears your art, tempting me
to bare my heart to your stars.