Unbound the Book
Some somewhere not within the view of eyes
A book lies open. It is perfect, full,
So full that it can always bat off lies
If it is read completely. It will pull
The soul. Perfection means that it is free
Of boundaries. We may write, and write, and write,
But it is full. Our books are just a sea
Or even just a rivulet, too slight
To add their jots through streams or tidal waves.
We think that we are adding to it, though
The truth is made of things far deeper. Graves
Are what our books are. Tombs do not have flow.
..These extra written words are not like holes
….That open it. They gape between its poles.