—on the painting by Van Gogh
And so it is, potatoes and coffee,
dim light of the lantern,
pouring of the drink,
holding of the cup.
They are arranged in their own order.
Beyond their hut the old canal flows by,
rich in its elegance, in its green sophistication,
outliving us all.
Not a spirit, but an older
kind of body, its mind
a corporeal pleasure, lovely as a lady
reclining on a chaise lounge.
The potato eaters’ faces are not
yellow ochre, burnt sienna, raw umber.
With those hands they have tilled the field,
swept the floors, forked the hay.
And so it is, dust unto dust,
and they remain, faces,
bodies in the darkness, ghosts
quiet as reverent children.
