—after “The Starry Night” by Anne Sexton and Vincent Van Gogh
Sucked into the black hole of a new moon.
Boiled into roiling clouds over a silent town.
Devoured by hungry stars, seeking due dust.
Ravaged by the rushing beast of the night.
Birthed through a wormhole into who-knows.
Nexted into no-cry, no-country, no-God.