October Reaper
(Wheatfield with a Reaper)
a study of brown, even the sun is
ringed with brown, the brown hills,
the brown wheat, and a brown reaper.
you run your finger over the mounds
and stiffen at the thought of a woman’s
breasts, you say, these look like a well-fed
woman’s breasts, and I think but do not say:
and the brown-ringed sun looks like a cum-stain
left on yellow sheets by a careless dripping
lover
and what else can I say? nothing to you. for if I did
you would not answer, so I hold forth to Vincent, who
tortured these worlds into existence, and I
torture myself with phantoms, and although
you won’t be with me, in this brown
October, I can see us walking those hills,
I can see the brown-ringed sun dripping
its chipped rays on our silence.
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