Vincent Van Gogh. December 1885. Oil on canvas.
The hair runs from her head
and beyond the perimeters
of this moment,
what remains lightened by the sun
and cradling her pale neck,
its long, vertical shades of skin
connecting themselves to her
surrendered face,
where we wantonly fix
our gaze.
She seems to question herself,
glancing through a window, perhaps,
or tracing the design of a vase with her eyes.
She is the only event:
painted loosely, barely unified
but still alive, focused
on what we can only hope to know
or comprehend,
something signaling her complete
resignation from the composition.
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