The Starry Night

by Anne Sexton

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 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.