Never seen someone
attack a bookstore like you did:
Diving and
prowling, eyes bright with hungry fire,
Fingers racing
along spines, giving them shivers,
Searching, it turned
out, for Frost.
It seemed a kind
of trance that you were laboring in,
And I was loath to
break it, but a voice
Beat carpe diem into my dull brain
Till I was more
fearful of not speaking –
Though not,
admittedly, by very much.
The fire didn’t
fade from those wild eyes;
You didn’t raise
the shutters of politeness
Over your eager
very-Irish face.
That’s when I knew
it wasn’t only books
That kindled you
and made you beautiful;
It was the world –
the vast and brimful world –
Made vivid in a
line about Vermont,
Or other places
you had never seen,
Or in a stranger’s
awkward hoping smile
In a bookshop, in
Galway, where Frost would have to wait.
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