Vincent Van Gogh’s Shoes
They rest before you unlaced, motionless,vessels of a workaday world of worn leatherand tired feet.
The tile floor beneath a patchworkof muted blues, orange, redsslanting downward from upper rightto lower left, a plane slightly skewedfrom the angled shoes as thoughthe pair stand alone, unviolatedsovereign in some gatheredsilence.
No pretensions here.No ornamentation ofhigh art.No gods or kings,No nymphs or castles.
You think:this is the secret life of objectspassed over by unseeing eyescaught in traffic of loss and gain,distraction and desire.
You think:this is a truth of what we wear,this is a message from apair of shoes.
This is the world in which wecome to live and die.