Fiat Tabula Rasa

My mind is worst when
     [waxed and buffed
like a black marble lobby]
it gives no purchase to feet or rede.

I’d liefer leave and slide across
its sable-shine rind and reck
after the janitor’s jangle-bone key ring to

Sub-basement b with the concrete call
     [sepulchral, into distant directions]
of ru
swoll into its thews.

He and I
     [his harrier]

the lines we pass in dust. They are as
arcane words mined into our service.

     [A clean floor can kill such men as we.]

It forgets those it has been trod upon.
It has no ruth to purpose.

Just so,
my unfilled mind
     [in thrall]
speaks of dirt as a musing
and unrevised withal,
     [strewn into trash bins]
they both
     [should not]
become rubbish.

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