VAN GOGH’S CROWS by Kenneth Pobo
Crows took his body up to heaven—
which, for him, was a small room,
an easel, good bread on the table,
wine. He was fairly light so only
a small flock got him there.
They flew back to earth–black wings
perfect for mourning. They flapped
over a harvested wheat field, wind
dragging a sack of winter.