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. 



"Her Kind"

I have gone out, a possessed witch 
haunting the black air, braver at night; 
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch 
over the plain houses, light by light: 
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. 
A woman like that is not a woman, quite. 
I have been her kind. 

I have found the warm caves in the woods, 
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, 
closets, silks, innumerable goods; 
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: 
whining, rearranging the disalign. 
A woman like that is misunderstood. 
I have been her kind. 

I have ridden in your cart, driver, 
waved my nude arms at villages going by, 
learning the last bright routes, survivor 
where your flames still bite my thigh 
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. 
A woman like that is not ashamed to die. 
I have been her kind. 
  

Bohemian Ink