Van Gogh saw crows
in the shape of letters
that spelled his last vision
as a sea of grass
peppered with crows
who left him when he looked.

No crows pose
for diseased men
with broken eyes.

No crows look back
at the bursting canvas
abandoned in the field.

The artist dies with revisions
lost in his brush
whose hairs curl and weather
as the crow flies_

My father is a poet
For he spent his life walking
to where he was going
for the foreign idea
of his future children.
Rarely have I seen anything
so well composed.

My father does not want me to write
For he sees I do not have
feet like his.
And in my laziness
I blame my birth in honey
for stealing from me
what made my father move.