what speaks to us through boredom

a bin on a safestep™ platform

is a giant roll of film

filled with dirty, incriminating photos –

a black plastic bag enfolds it to halfway

craggy like a field tilled inexpertly

craggy like a toy Star Wars™ landscape

and the safestep™ a lustrous egg yolk

hue emboldened by the worms the hen pecks up

hue ennobled by the light of baby grass

hue engineered with resin and pigments in China –

                                  

white walls, shell ceiling, carton carpet –

a healthy egg is holding up a bin in reverence

a trash bin in the centre, shiningly aloft –

why is it there, what’s the deal with the stink

              

                of wet pencil sharpenings –

                            of stockfeed

in this classroom on the fourth floor of an idea?

and the bucolic/bin dialectic, the byroads you’re finding

to the fringes, the darkrooms cajoling you back

with a beauty so unearthly and yet from the earth

all of it saying, nothing is emptied

and cleaning is a chimera

and photos aren't frozen but fugitives on the run.