The book appeared to arrive, the ink is invisible.
The pages dissolved in your centre.
And when you find it you know
That it was you that wrote it
In you it is written,
And all it speaks of
Is you
In all the forms you display.
It is not black or white
Just an inscrutable grey
From which arises
All that we ever could say.
David Taylor
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-book-you-were-looking-for/
