/>This is a famous poem, or rather,
a famous picture. The moon
is a pudding in the center. The sower’s
body twists, and his arm swings wildly, flinging
seed with an ernestness suggesting
that this may be his last chance
to complete the planting. Come
to think of it, that is probably not the moon,
but the sun, and it’s setting. Primary
colors, and the very lack of specific
identifying features, gives
the whole an almost epic quality.
Words cannot describe it.
No poem would be adequate.
The artist, Van Gogh, had to die,
to kill himself, to make this clear
to us. Sometimes, like now,
I feel I ought to pour paint
over my words and obliterate them;
overwhelm them with abstraction.