Monday Poem

Nothing But Light

reflections stutter in the picture plane
as if Vincent were still alive
dragging oils across canvas in French light
inhaling the color of things
expiring his incandescent translations
in spectacular conjugations of frequencies
setting fire to a field with crows
turning night into pinwheels, vibrations
underpinning everything in sight
nothing still but the lying frame
a thing suggesting what is seen is all there is
while what’s real is past that edge
beyond expanse and nothing but light

Jim Culleny

painting, Wheatfield with Crows,
by Vincent Van Gogh