Carpet, Hoofprints

There are wet, snuffling muzzles. Foam-spattered flanks. Smudges of grease beneath the eyes. A knot of snakeskin clamped between the teeth. There are blurping cisterns of tar, spitting skillets of fat. There are bugs that crunch and grubs that squish underfoot. There is the tearing of crusty cloth, of plucked skin. There are spreading splotches of pungent mildew, fungus both fanged and furry, patchwork battalions of bacterial scabs. It's no wonder we remain inside, wiping and wiping the clean glass, polishing the slick and winking tile, trying to send the spirits scampering with a single flick of the vacuum cleaner's switch.