The Sky Pours In

​
Edouard Vuillard,
I believe that in heaven
just rolling the lovely
syllables of your name
off my tongue will induce
a thousand indulgences for those 
left behind, trudging through slush or 
wrestling their conscience on bed sheets.

Edouard Vuillard, this is the day
that the mottled sky works its way
into your studio the same as waves
that wash and saw into porous
Caribbean caves. This light 
rarefies the air you and

old man Roussel breath.  Wan, 
Roussel nests in a tall chair. 
He seems worn, ready to pass
into a world of boundless beauty;
one that, like a new lover, 
stuns, murders and completes.