She had gone ahead as I had gotten lost in the bookstore,
thumbing through postcards of Yeats and feeling inspired,
tumbling clumsy verse in my head,
while she had trailed off and to have a coffee.
And I joined her here, and we sat for awhile.
I never had a happier moment in all our trip.
The sparse walls, the bookish atmosphere,
living in the ghosts of Joyce, this being the National Library,
this calm heart, this odd feeling of content,
this invitation, as seen through my eyes.