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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