Reading this floor lying together,
we note the grains of wood and
the way they lie against each other
in streaks of sap and marks of years,
the separation of trunk from twig
and twig from leaf and leaf from
shade and light and shadows as
shadows play against us and the 
floor, lit in golden squares, and
against the white squares of paper
we read, and talk aloud to each
other and rustle in our vocal cords,
marks within our throats
emanate to mark the other
as planks of wood lit up
in light of early morning.