All Noahs.
No more the child who's screaming in his bed
fails at the edge of dark to bare his wound for binding
since none may find the cut.
Alone, protesting in his head, he finds the perpetual dark
though day and night go round.
And sensing the storm he sets his bony ark
on a mountain for deliverance against the wind's strut.
No pairs of living things bear on with him
in the groaning whirlwind and the gnashing deep.
He lashes himself alone in his single grim and voiceless agony
and as the child, exhausted, finally sleeps, so he may sleep.