I search for words to reach you through your art.
Your paintings have a diction of their own,
expressing through a language I do not speak,
not sounds, but colours, shapes, contours
so rich, so varied.
I will cast out an endless line,
if necessary, to reach you—
you, with your brush poised at the canvas,
your palette loaded with lush pigments, with washes
devised out of your tortured mind.
Still life reality: the broken biscuit, the cold coffee
discarded amidst the battered tubes,
abandoned so suddenly for your desperate journey
to infinite fields of wheat and poppies,
to the glory of sunflowers.
There was some order in the moments,
the times you found to write to your dear brother—
letters revealing so much humanity.
I will throw out a line, I will angle for the
truth about you, and for words to describe
your suffering, your genius.
I will poach, if necessary.