—after Gauguin
The sky can’t keep the clouds it loves.
It searches boulders, mimics seaside mist.
Light reveals then confounds—
ocher and gold, turbulent purple.
Under scumbled branches, women
huddle in an aureole of shadow.
A baby sleeps in a boneyard of flowers.
Where are we going? Far into nowhere.
Where do we come from? Fruit the color of flesh.