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