The Starry Night

 That does not keep me from having a terrible need of -- shall I say the word -- religion.
 Then
I go out at night to paint the stars.


--Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.

The town is silent.
 The night boils with eleven stars.

Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.


It moves.
 They are all alive.

Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.

The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.

Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.

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