Stands in this sand waste An abandoned stone, An overturned head a half house high; Waters that have flat its cut Vanish as a dream untold. But on this head is concentrate Intolerable memories Of youth grown old. I am that bright familiar Wanders through the street And banging merchants' windows in Must beg for my milk and meat; My old face by time betrayed To an indistinguishable mass, But when night and wine grow great enough I dance on the weedy grass. Down this long shore as a boy Body and soul were sure As any pale, unalterable rock That I now dance before. Hands urgent as a hangman's cord, All body warped to a board, Creep in the salt beneath a face Heavy, androgynous. Sliding up through valves of storm And mastered by a rage The variable sea has seen that form Descend from age to age. Wind-beaten I but seem, Flat on the wetted sand, A derelict, not worth The dock-dog's howl or tooth.