when you think the universe calls you by name

seaside, wayward
h u m i l i ated ; her wincing flowers tumbling,
the light collapsing on the cracked vase.
Lately she's been the knocking knees,
a parishioner of the Van Gogh stars,
painting lonely villages blue.

I called the news reporters;
They turned me away.
I am the wincing benefactor of a girl without a name.