Van Gogh Ministers in the Mines

where there is neither window nor door

nor winding passage to stars,

only a simple word and the face

of a stranger cast in yellow.

But look—

you lift your hands

black with dust

to draw a finger

along that deepest wall.

You lift your eyes

to touch the face of the one

who made you, the eyes

that well with stars for you—

a scar along the ridge of ear,

dark blood flown to ground,

don’t you see how

light cuts you

even here?