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| The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova |
I lie with insomnia,
wishing it was you.
Listen as salt trucks echo
along the river road;
dare to disturb monochrome.
The autumn of me craves
orange marmalade on toast,
breakfast with no conversation,
watching sunflowers
grow into firm-fleshed love children.
I think about Vincent nibbling his paint,
how the taste of his favorite
floated vivid on his tongue,
how he was happiest
in the yellow house.
