‎ ‎As we first looked up from our beds― ‎ ‎ in one frame, some might've intervened ‎ with a constellating mobile. it is the ‎ ‎roiling oil ahead―Van Gogh ‎ presented to us with but a healing ear. ‎ ‎no factory fog, no veteran's vision, ‎ nor photo sepia. Saint-Rémy seemed ‎just a half-charred celestial―sleeping ‎ through the night in 1889. ‎ *‎what of now?* ‎ now, we wait in line― ‎ ‎ we stall at the museum hall― ‎ to see, to touch, to dabble in the scene, ‎ to count all the orbs like our own critic. ‎ ‎but the proof night then falls, and ‎ we're fixed on what real stars look like. ‎the fire clematis; how we glow ‎ *in the backdrop.* ‎ ‎Van Gogh never stopped admiring ‎ from his east window. ‎if we wait long enough for a single shadow, ‎ and squint far enough, there'll be ‎ stars in the sky, like he'd seen. ‎ ‎however, I like to think in my belief― ‎ that there are stars on land, too. ‎