True north. Vincent’s north.

The glimpsed

unland of light. And through each fissure

of earth, the indigo

fields that burn

in a seething wind of stars.

What is locked

in the eye that possessed you

still serves

as an image of home: the barricade

of an empty chair, and the father, absent,

still blooming in his urn

of honesty.

You will close your eyes.

In the eye of the crow who flies before you,

you will watch yourself

leave yourself behind.