The book, closed, lying harmless
smiles briefly at some private joke,
its print silent, all read,
ordered like socks in drawers
ready to walk, dance, climb, march,
but slumbering now, inert.
But in here, in my brain
its imprint there cascades
tumbles, rejuvenates, surges,
establishes a place, a cozy
nook, looks out the windows
checks out the neighbourhood
swirls around, ready to party.
Some books settle in, subside,
slide into empty rooms, disappear;
others take hold, redecorate the
livingroom, reroof, paint the outside,
landscape, build decks, extensions,
and start sprouting seedlings.
Of the twenty books and change
I have read this summer,
two have really shaken up the joint:
they are still racing out for new
patterns, colours, getting ready
for relations to arrive.
For this, I read.
