A Suicide

/>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.