Sanding the floor

Slowly, to and fro, slowly, I spoil the varnish, and the half-moons: hobnail and spike, pressed for a century to smeared prints no one can read, or a soiled palm's lost lifeline. In my archeology of vanity I rented this roller to draw out the strata of wood, till Oak, tongue-in-groove, props me above the loam cellar, a palimpsest, which bleaches back to milky pulp, pure, and ready to print again.