his yellow house is gone
accidentally destroyed by bombers
during World War 2

the Place du Forum is still there
(as is the old train station
where canvas and paints came in
and from which paintings were shipped out)
and its cafe with yellower than ever awnings

perhaps old dried blood
from bleeding ear still sits in cracks
on the cobblestoned streets
from yellow house to whore house

Gauguin came for his brief stay
then Theo that tragic day
Vincent was escorted to asylum
a visionary he owed no artist
his every stroke was his alone

time was slower then
when he created a new way
of seeing the world
now fast now buried
under guilt and rubble
broken promises and hopes

his pulsated with life
the hills heaved the skies rolled
trees ever in motion
hidden energies revealed
God's finger traces Its' version of reality