it wears a thick winter coat of dirt

seven crescent moons instantaneously encrusted

as the pale plastic crevice peeks uncovered

 

to have sopped up

spilt liquid laundry

on the sacred space:

post-monday morning

 

antennae, lint, suds

satanized in place of sanitation

pads blistering?, heaving past the muddy tinkle

exhaustion resists reflection

while the light’s this bad

—at least