Boy 1904

Blow, wind, sing my dull ache
and shake the bitter shadow of sleep.
Renounce my sins in the shatter of morning light,
Make me pure like so many virgins
and angels before:
corona of blue light
and fingers stiff as roots.

What the cool air of night
can steal,
the dew and batting lashes of mist
will return to me in halves
New as the pink of a baby's mouth
and knit me together,
and stitch,
To form a patchwork that will keep out most draughts.