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 transcendent ,immaterial juxta-positioning
of typographical content do they undergo ?
sturdy leather-bound volumes
tomes of immeasurable linguistic conceit ,
they’re never quite the same read twice ,
whilst once is never enough
to discover their latent deceit.
words coffined,interred ,
entombed in myriad volumes ,
stacked and shelved ,
row upon row upon row ,
in vaulted library mausoleums ;
The unread tomes ,
published so very long ago ,
read at the time
appreciated and loved and
then were read no more ;
as yesterday’s style ,
their grammar,their syntax ,
was wearied by age
made tawdry by changing fashion;
Referenced only in scholarly footnotes ,
made objects of aesthetes’collections ,
words long since confined to
a purgatory of obscurity ;
Dormant in their slumbers
waiting and waiting and waiting ,
for someone ,a reader
to rediscover their burial plot,
their buried plots ,
their stories as once told ;
Re-opening their covered tombs
disintering their shrouded narratives ,
and alone by the act of reading
the dead words arise
and meaning is re-born.