Wheatfield with Crows

Click this link to hear M. L. Brown read “Wheatfield with Crows”


—after Vincent Van Gogh

He lays my bones on canvas, plays
the angles. The long ones he strokes
into stalks of wheat, ribs
into ruts and hillocks.
He ticks the short into storm.

I ride the rust of the road,
glim the green as it plows through.
My pale eyes mismatch in the sky.

Then the crows tip in:
the troubles of heaven on the wing.

They do not consider the scare in me—
carved into cobalt, lucid in gold.
A man could die happily here.

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