On Van Gogh's Wheatfields Under Clouds 
Clearly, it's all
coming apart--         
the thundercloud
a slash of paint,
the deluge of deep
conflicting blues,
the fields ripening 
an unearthly green.
There are no dreams
left to dream--
the clump of poppies
seems an afterthought,
and the manic 
yellow zig-zag line,
indicating corn
or country lane,
suggests the final act
is indeed upon us--
and that no one,
not even the hint of rider
or the ghost of horse,
will now escape. 



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