He lay on his bed
and wisdom ran away with the ant:

he straightened his limbs
and a woman made up her mouth and put out
        her ball to let:

he laid his hands on his breast
and there, by the jig-see puddle, he saw the one
        become many:

he put his hands together
and sadly he looked up at himself looking down
        on what once he was:

he lay over on his side
and his childhood struggled out of the muck and
        tumbled into the mire:

he laid his hand beneath his cheek
and a clean white worm got into his brain:

he shut his eyes
and haste came flying out of hell:

he breathed deeply
and someone said, The stink of man is upon him . . .

Then he fell asleep
and ate up his first cry.