December 31, 2013


The town does not exist
Except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drown woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry night this is the way I want to die.

They move. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its oranges irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is the way 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.

Anne Sexton

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