we all have songs
we can’t sing
out loud
they speak for us
they feel for us
they have the
softest hands
that reach so deep
they know things
about us
we don’t want others
to know
they can rip us
apart from the first
note

In Amsterdam a few years ago I stood below 12 sunflowers.
Standing still I stared at the bright strokes, bold
With something but I.
Could not understand I.
Did not see a plan, and I.
Felt small, my heart in my hand alone below bright beaming sunflowers
Some sort of morse code.

Through the frame I look at sunflowers still stale.
For a moment I was nauseous and the world spun round
Like a horror story the painting asks for a gift.
I could not provide, salty eyes and lips
I could not give, a heavy handed thought.
So I turned on my heel
and left.