Ploughed Fields by Van Gogh

I stopped in Amsterdam
on the way to Edinburgh
expressly to see you.

Took the flight
with the absurdly long layover
so I could
take the train to Centraal
and walk the streets,
cross the canals,
smell the flowers,

to where you waited
among the sunflowers
and almond blossoms,

around the corner from
Paul’s room.

You drive a black horse,
a white horse,
across the Poughed Fields
while Vincent
paints you.

Did you talk to him?
Did you wonder what that
strange Parisian was doing?

But …
apparently I was supposed to buy a ticket
online.

So I’ll have to ask you
all these questions
another time.