I.

The slush engraved with tire tracks
     translucence, muddying
     the purity of a shitstain
Earth boils, makes smoke
Rises up through the snow
A bootprint, a coal mine, a smokestack
These natural states of things
That ensure no clean slates
     They impress
     They are washed away
     They are flooded
     They fall down
Into the broken teeth of men
They make a mess, they are too still

II.

A splinter in my eye
Left a hole with which to see
An outpouring pus
Vision 

III.
I am tilting, I sit on the floor
     an accumulation of fat
     a belch that burns throats
Fingernails grow in between the spaces
     of a keyboard’s letters, numbers
Between the spaces of an index
Between all things lie
Fingernails, clippings, hair
Earwax, oils, mucous
Chitin left over from dead spiders
Semen, clots, everything remains
The foundation of all dust
Is us, filed away by the wind
By the corners on which we stub
Ourselves, our toes