Visiting Van Gogh, forgetting, if we ever remembered, sunflowers were peasant flowers. Came as a shock, these readymade clichés, to the system when first they appeared over the horizon in 1889. Their ragged glory, their outlandish pushiness, their triumphal hours. Provence in June, the light tightens the eyes. Yellow unforgettably takes over for weeks, remembering hot sirocco down to the roots. Their top-heavy heads drop over with age, hundreds of black tears blow across byways, ancient fields. Their definite intention, their definitive purpose, their indefinite cycle. Someone of no fixed address has just one chance to get it right, now.