Painting Irises

What Monet did not know:
It was only natural
for a man who loved flowers
to be unhappy.

From a distance,

white iris, alone, is proof enough

that my lethargic brush stroke bleeding into the stalk,

impatient dabs devoid of deliberation,

thinking the whole would somehow add up

into the wilderness;

Thinking the whole would somehow add up

into the wilderness,

my loving carelessly,

are one.

Gogh’s iris haunts

Like a translucent god caught in iceblink.

At night, alone

other irises emerge like sharp scissors,

nagas with violet tongues

burn darkly and freeze

till the daylight gently draws the blue

from the snow.