"Whether the World be finite, and but one"

Here is the painting of the edge

                                 of the world. It is not

                 what you expect. The barn, its door agape,

        its interior implosive with darkness. The split

rail fence, the hand-panted sign

                                 warning away the curious.

                 The lettering is too small to read from this

        distance, and we will only ever see

the edge of the world from this distance,

                                                the velvet cordon

                 bumping at our waists,

the museum guard coughing.

         Someone says,

                          This world is overrated.

         Someone says,

                          Beyond the earth is another.

         Someone says,

                          The artist died of syphilis.

         Someone says,

                          He was struck blind.

         By stroke, says one.

By god, says another.

They all agree the painting is beautiful.

                                               In the foreground,

                        a slouching sheaf of wheat. In its center,

                 says the docent, the grain has begun

to rot. Where is the farmer? someone calls out.

Curvilinear roof, asymptotic sky. The title

                                              is cut

                        into the paint with a palette knife. Here,

it says, Then nothing. What did you expect?