Not lichen, not yet here when this began,
Not cold, not river water, but a man;
Not sand, not weeds belonging to the place,
Not posters, not cement, but a dark face;
Not with me as my friend once was, a leaf
Thin with my pity, veined through with my grief;
But like him now, gone out beyond the grace
Of grit and noise and sunlight in this place.