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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