The Seekers of Lice

    When the boy's head， full of raw torment¹，

    Longs for hazy² dreams to swarm³ in white，

    Two charming older sisters come to his bed

    With slender fingers and silvery nails.

    They sit him at a casement⁴ window， thrown

    Open on a mass of flowers basking⁵ in blue air，

    And run the fine， intimidating⁶ witchcraft⁷

    Of their  fingers through his dew-dank hair.

    He listens to their diffident， sing-song breath，

    Smelling of elongated⁸ honey off the rose，

    Broken now and then by a hiss⁹： saliva¹⁰ sucked

    Back from the lip， or a longing¹¹ to be kissed.

    He hears their dark eyelashes start in the sweet-

    Smelling silence and， through his grey listlessness，

    The crackle of small lice dying， beneath

    The imperious nails of their soft， electric fingers.

    The wine of Torpor¹² wells up in him then

    Near on trance， a harmonica-sigh

    And in their slow caress¹³ he feels

    The endless ebb¹⁴ and flow of a desire to cry.