The Man Who Wrote the Books

It is better said by those in the know, not

I, who only saw him two or three times,

no more, and then only awkwardly.

Yet I think I thought I knew him, this

hurried, harried, hurrying man, easily

distracted into the things on his mind.

 Whether standing in the windy sparseness

of his Pico fastness or on the rise behind

Sayles Hall, peering out at the singers

from Coimbra of a warm, sun-bright

noontime, he could not but escape

 into his craft, the aluminum wings

 of dream merely a belated realizing

of another way to navigate among

the dark stones of his imagined seas,

with no time to blink back at the wake.

Windham, CT
May 29, 2010

The subject of this unpublished poem is the writer Dias de Melo.

Imagem de http://bibliotecamunicipaldiasdemelo.blogspot.ca/2010_10_01_archive.html