piteous , recalled from mouth too soon ; actually the flags , dragging on the ground ; caught somewhere lifting my head up , pillows that - white , oil skin , grecian rubble do not come apart in my hands . my hands are the first thing to go ; the carriage rocks , widely around the city’s edge land . look , look now ; i am fulfilling my own rite ; half of my face is reflected in the carriage window ; the other half folds across the mouth of a turbine ; a chimney that retches , glassy smoke ;