Three Poems by Daisy Fried

Step Inside Van Gogh

Night, for $65, will froth and flow,
and shapes between the orbiting clouds
intensify their indigo while doleful

chipper Imogen Heap cools the moonlike
fever of the stars in ambient warble—
the sound’s the shake between you and me.

A foothill village: Lifted by its glow.
The tree’s a knife. It’s not a flame.
That’s not Saint-Rémy. It’s in your head.

Immersive spectacle, take me in, take
from me my disease-and-sorrow dream.
“But Bosch immersive might be fun,”

you, riffing, say, and we begin to joke
of pokerings in orifices, of bodies
stretched on racks like hospital beds.