Vincent saw flowers.
He saw long soft leaves like locks of hair
and great blue flapping flowers with golden beaks—
or perhaps he saw green, vertical life
erupting up from low orange flames, like a miracle,
and flowers as blue-white as an untroubled sky.
Perhaps he saw by sudden disturbing revelation
texture, in the soil, on the leaves,
in the centers of the irises,
so nauseatingly minute,
but was called away to lunch before he could paint the vision.
All I can say for certain
is that Vincent saw flowers.
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