Van Gogh Making Wheatfield under Thunderclouds Today he thinks about healthy, fortifying flowers And dirt sown, calm melting into hollow, whistling hours Things getting pushed away by the wind alone Having died after they've grown. Later they're dried On the canvas and his brother cries, clouds made of cream-colored oils Melting into linen like noise against sky leaving one to wonder If he knew which day he'd never dirty a last smock Or write another letter. Three more large canvases hang dry Nailed into concrete bordering the room vast stretches Of corn under troubled skies. I wonder what it means to be so alone That soft flesh can shatter like glass around bone. Delicate yellow, Delicate soft green, and blue, too grandiose, too calm too much unknown Left in between. With no one else around, he talks, There is something like hope living in the stalks. By mechanical, rectangular patches in the grass There's a reminder he used his hands to cross-stitch hashes, Space for wheat and life that never sprouts, and nothing else breaks Through the dirt. And where the white brush strokes meet the sky They bend into a tornado or the start of a tornado, or the quiet resolve After a gunshot or goodbye, an indescribable expanse That's far too grand, No, they are just the broad strokes Of his shaking hand.