Marcella Durand

Beneath this floor the earth tips
and tilts in such a way we cling
to boards; we trace on wood
the faint impresses of type and
discover the elliptical pull within
the compasses of each other.
Reading further, in voices we
attempt the gravitational shadows
of voids & eclipses, while yet
behind the text, steady our hands
upon splinters. In need of a good
varnishing in its entropic efforts
to pierce those who lay upon it,
the floor is a thin covering, trees
little remembered against the rocks
& melting of compression.