How does a nail rise from the floor
over the course of many days
until it becomes a peril,
the head no longer flush with wood
able to tear holes in your socks
when you shuffle along the hall 
between bedrooms in stocking feet?

Perhaps the plank recalls itself
a whole tree, before it was hewn,
among others in the forest. 
Its fibrous grain imparts a stress, 
as if a muscle always flexed,
that slowly pushes the nail out
like a splinter squeezed from a wound –

the harsh contaminant removed, 
flesh relieved to be rid of it,
skin healing around the blemish.
We take our structures for granted,
believe in their static nature, 
yet what was meant to hold in place
is refused by that which is built

and morphs into a source of dishevelment.