the sea is leafing through wave after wave
a ripple of sound over stones then foam and nothing
a memory heaping moisture and scent on the shore

wave after wave the leaves of the book
among them weed jugs sand some corpse
who leafs through it, let alone writes it

no gull no ship no swimmer
no-one moving through this brilliance
knows he is just a letter, a speck, a sign not a reader

perhaps in some world it has already been read
and this wave is now no more than a brittle leaf
the book has already been thrown away in tatters

or every event in it has been transcribed
because it takes place but the leafing is a momentary rustle

Translated by Alasdair MacKinnon