Marcella Durand

The floor stretches the length of the void:
we pound upon it, a shouting match, brutal
and macho. In prowess we describe the long
planks and martial arts to use the leverage
of loose nails upon chins. The length of 
emptiness faced with only the blank stare
of wood. This floor written upon it is
us, bodies curved into hieroglyphs, keys
lost into skies. So will this floor lie
exposed to the wind & heat, when
we learn to read upon each other, and
when we learn to write slowly not using
each other's tongue as painful stylus?

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