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He is at the sink, his head
Under the tap, cold water
Running off his bald crown
And through the remains of
His hair where it lies as if
Fallen at an explosion,
Black and limp and ragged.
The pale crown is doubled
In the small, dim mirror,
As is the bare lightbulb.
He comes up for air and
Looks at himself with a
Beard of clear water and
His scalp scattered all over
With broken light. He does
Not turn off the tap, he
Only stares at his own face
And listens to the basin fill
And does not recognise it.

From some abstract place
Above him, it is as if
The whole of his past life
Were pouring in, a great
Obscure pressure on him.
A mass, or a momentum.
As when, after a long drive,
He would sit and smoke and
Feel the room move forward.
He puts his head under again,
And it pour and pours.