by Christos Polydorou

wp-image-1271204925jpg.jpegI was a book you picked up off the shelf.
You took me home.

You took me to bed.
You read me all night.

When you were done,
you went to page one,

and started over. I was
your favourite book, for

many years, until
another younger, fresher, newer

book came along,
which became your favourite.

You have not read me in years, ok,
but that is because you know me

off by heart. You
can go to the beginning of any book

and start over. It would be like
forgetting the Latin word

for Japanese clover,
Lespedeza. We remember,

we forget. We open up,
we fold down,

like books. We hide
on dusty shelves. We lie

in sunlight on coffee tables.
We are all stories for the time being,

being told,
in Helvetica,

in calligraphy,
across pages

that could cover
the whole world

several times over.