When we shut the books,
do the chapters rearrange themselves?
when we turn the pages,
do the words appear differently to us from
the last time when we deigned to read them?
As for those books still on the shelf,
the ones we promised to get round to reading,
what of them?
What transcendant, immaterial juxtapositioning
of typographical content do they undergo ?
sturdy leatherbound volumes
tomes of immeasurable linguistic conceit,
they're never quite the same read twice,
whilst once is never enough
to discover their latent deceit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem