It’s in the quick, snap flash,

the blinding bright light of

your dime-store mirror,

I hold it to the window -

and collect squares of daylight

 flash back a signal – the s.o.s.

of my effort to bring order to such chaos,

to this mad spinning world,

to  Van Gogh’s Starry, Starry Night,

all rich-hued and swirling.

It sings with rhythm and rhythm and rhythm,

a thing that beats a tune to my ear

that starts the brain tilt swirling

like a tea-cup on the boardwalk,

spinning so dizzying.

I am lost in the tilt of it, lost

in the broad stroke definition of the brush,

in the round, soft language of lunatics.

note: this poem first appeared on www.blogcritics.org