Poetry by Tufik Shayeb
he tears out
all the inscription pages,
embarrassed by their love
only authors
have the right to sign books
their regards are like graffiti
on the oak-hewn beams
of a wizened church
they are heathens
to the typefaced word
having given more texts
than they have ever read,
like some hollow communion
they have added to each one,
rejoicing at their devotion
and congratulated each other
on sermons of great eloquence,
as if knowledge is a prayer
forgetting that a book
is most often just a book
