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.