Furtive little trash can I see you hiding from the bright florescence of this busy classroom, under a table, as though beneath a cedar bent across a quiet corner of some forgotten brook. Your mouth, its delicate flesh of loose plastic lining, is like a minnow's, momentary, motionless, agape, as though feeding at a trembling surface on crumbs from an unseen hand. Be very still now. There, the numen of one dark eye above a great depth. You.