Bearing along garbage and rafted trash, bottles of suncured glass wherein corollas of mauve and gold lie exploded, orange-peels ambered with age. A dead sow pink and bloated and jars and crates and shapes of wood washed into rigid homologues of viscera and empty oilcans locked in eyes of dishing slime where the spectra wink guiltily. One day a dead baby. Bloated, pulpy rotted eyes in a bulbous skull and little rags of flesh trailing in the water like tissuepaper. Oaring his way lightly through the rain among these curiosa he felt little more than yet another artifact leached out of the earth
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