When trash can be visited on a Monday afternoon in indifferent sunlight, and then left behind with the bearded ladies, it is something like a newfound artwork, an ancient peasant pendant, worn for its age and its simpleton novelty.

As her feet plow up the ground along the roadside walking home, she thinks of scientific dust, archaeological crumbs, brushed from the crevices of ancient ossifications.
Yellow, Kenyan t-shirts swallowed by sewers do not carry this yet.
They are unexaminable, undetermined because they are alive, but once removed,
And carry the odor and emanations
of still-living creations.

In her dreams of shit and no showers, she glides through mud pools with otter skin and iridescent oil gleam slick on her back. And even at the dawn of glorious days her dreams place her trudging alone on treacherous nights all drooped with no mother.
The dirt and the bruises obscure each other.

As the window's light pries her oily lashes apart, the bugs scamper up her thighs and she itches with such violence that she draws blood, and it sits under her nails all day, growing burgundy, as she spreads herself in the wicker lawn chair.

And she wishes for the moment when that something will pummel her body into mud, and she will slide through like an otter, with oil-slicked skin, all brown and wet, Dissolving
Into moist grit undetermined and alive.