Tonight St. Remy paints itself.
I see markings in the clouds,
the wind trails scratch marks in swirls.
Stars spin and tumble
like bright children rolling down
a hillside. The air is thick and slow
like breathing glue. Each rooftop pierces
the sky—cuts without blood, every shade
of purple in a bruise.
I’ve run out of blue paint,
and it seems the only pigment
beyond this window is blue—
from steeple shadow to the low bellies
of thunderheads, to the deep thatched rows
in the vineyards.
I want to drag my brush
through the sky, steal sticky stars
for this canvas, now awash
with last strokes of indigo. I want
to swallow this night like a true, black elixir,
a whole ripe plum, or my own tongue.
The bottles you sent by post are empty brown,
the color of dead stems. I poured them
into the base of my hydrangea, now grown
wild, without bloom.