( I’ve been working on a poem centered around Van Gogh’s painting The Wheatfield and the Crows. It is possibly his last painting before he shot himself. I’ve also been thinking about the cult of celebrity and criticism and how it has destroyed many artists who struggled to make ends meet when they were alive, but in death their art became worth millions to those who had originally criticized.) This is just one sketch our outlined idea.

It begins with him painting.
Alone in the golden wheat.
Dark birds dot the sky;
they are not vultures
they are crows
they are critics.

They are flying wildly.
Why are they flying?
Away from the sound

The birds scatter
over all of his paintings,
all of his influences,
all of his colors.

He is like a useless scarecrow
shot,
the vermilion spilling,
scattering,
flying.
He sways.

Artist You die, and
they love you now,
but never while
you were alive.