No painting works.
Although the photographs rejoice the town.
Fishing for compliments the nets bind ships,
vessels tricolored every time,
varied and balanced to contain
Tons of anchovies freshly dead.
Collioure its name, the town is prowed
with vineyard hills. Wines everywhere
to taste, to color everything, to chase the salt.
When nature works this hard
the brush is best as fishing pole.
Many of those, always in older hands,
snapping the silver up. Sun, trees applaud.
No painting works.
Yet canvas strains, loaded with Van Gogh ships
going nowhere. Perhaps the painters
should be chased, thrown in the brink,
stopped from their lunch, so French.
The unique tower is not.
Moorish it icecreamcones up from the sea
its center keeping time. Keeping in time
with the old church.
God who is French colored Collioure
and cursed the painters to a pointlessness.
So if no painting works it can't be chance.
Mon Dieu, it must be by design.