Final Days (After Van Gogh—) Gayle Elen Harvey Harvey Page 1   [Listen to readings of these poems.] Less rested than when you began, you paint crows hanging late over wheat fields. Dark inklings, they trigger spasmodic dreams. Their numerous anthems begin flinching you, laying claim like the mistral's erotic scherzo. No longer bulletproof in the midst of it, you paint dusk. Its drenched house of petals, its true weight, impervious with the black wings of too many. Your sunflowers collude. A mosaic of garbled strokes, their yellows begin bellowing. Colors distance the landscape. Unopened for looking, an asylum of olive and cypress trees babbles. It hoards no more comfort. No one knows what you carry. Uncentered, your body rushes out of its boundaries. You cannot endure the unguarded horizon. This thick sky with its slurry of stars.