I am enrooted like a distorted bush.

My wound?
It is that which glues me to the ground.
I succeed in raising my face, and the wet waves of space assail my eyes.

Patiently I pick out of the earthy pallor which blends all things some foggy shoulders, some cloudy angles of elbows, some hand-like lacerations.

I discern in the still circle which encloses me--faces lying on the ground and dirty as feet, faces held out to the rain like vases, and holding stagnant tears.
Quite near, one face is looking sadly at me, as it lolls to one side.
It is coming out of the bottom of the heap, as a wild animal might.
Its hair falls back like nails.

The nose is a triangular hole and a little of the whiteness of human marble dots it.