the walking heart

by Rob Plath

i stood at the fork
in van gogh’s wheatfield
on a late june afternoon
alone
far from home
few red wild flowers
dappling stalks of wheat
like blood
crows cawing in the woods
where he took a short cut
to this place
& i pondered the pistol
against his ribcage
as the wheat parted
in the wind
& how he miraculously missed
the black powder
around a hole in his belly
impossible to believe
as i imagined
the glistening red muscle
a beautiful oddity
opening & closing
the size of a man

room #5

by Rob Plath

upstairs in the cafe
i stood in van gogh’s attic room
tiny room he died in
from gunshot wound
(out in the wheatfield)
referred to as the suicide room
walking across
it takes 7 paces either way
to hit a wall
ceiling slanting downward
adding more to the claustrophobia
just a small skylight above
& i think how he’d leave at 5 am
to paint far-stretching fields
& immense swirling skies
of auvers sur oise, france
& then return to his little cell
collapsing on the slender bed
lighting his pipe
smoke climbing towards
the dark blue rectangle above
a slim man
his shape the length
of the mattress
but really the most beautiful giant
larger than miles of fields
& sky-filling curling clouds