Sometimes half asleep, scribbling words or waiting for the morning sky to deliver birds I fall off the edge, leave this tiny bed float on rainy streets, there is no one that I meet only a corner vacant house, where precious paintings hang I am staring in the window, at flowers yellow, blue this must be the room of Vincent Van Gogh, this starry night with lily ponds so beautiful, fields of flowers purple iris, Monet meadows brown skin woman, hibiscus flowered island scenes of Paul Gauguin, so brightly colored there are pastel Degas dancing ballerinas Marc Chagall, blue indigo people without legs, they smile surreal this museum of the mind minutes like hours turned sublime