That was his youthful enemy, fouling the azure
With absolute mirk risen from god knows where –
A zero mood, action’s and thought’s erasure,
Impassable as rock, vapid as air.
When angels came, this imbecile thing infesting
His home retired to its sanctum below stairs;
But emerged, sooner or later, clammily testing
His hold on grace, his bond with the absent stars:
Till the horror became a need, the blacked-out sky
A promise that his angels would reappear,
A proof of light. Then the curse played its sly
Last trick – it thinned away, it was never there.
If it has gone for good, will he mope and die
Like a pauper with the lice washed out of his hair?