Black Edge

I lie no more in a healthy sheet,

a wind of chill eyes makes a marsh of my cheeks,

diseased is my sleep with demented sound

and I am infected by the stars.

For see how the sun rubs ulcers in the sky,

how black as bats the field flowers droop and fall;

the earth, the sweet earth

is foul and full of graves.

O save me, for I am sick:

lay on my eyelids your finger’s miracle,

bewitch me that I may live.

Wash me in happy air,

restore me with the odour of rivers;

then feed, O feed

my sight with your normal love.