Still bloody

  Purple and crying

  With pudgy fingers

  Thinning hair

           Our son is

  A creased old man

  A bawling sage

  in woollen blankets

  It is my savage superstition to pray

  and give thanks

  Now that they have

  mopped shined you

  made of you a serene swaddled infant

  You are absolutely still

  A mystic with no name

  With sleep

  You shall grow young

      in this house

  Strong-lunged

  Round as the moon