The Literary Agent, Introduction Revisited

Whatever you are: books or nooks,
near shelves, sitting on rocks in brooks,
stuffed-up covers of the bed,
notions of a hero in my head –
as a snail, you’ve landed again,
finally, upon the beach of man
into far reaches of all days
and finding me in middle-page.

I found you, or you found me, when,
opening a book in my windowed den:
Ah hah! I felt you once again!
To enrich my soul: my old lost friend!

Snuggled-up with boyhood novels
that my father gave to me,
I felt you then, quiet, vague,
as you entered revelry.

How long have you resided in
my soul yet unannounced?
Do you fly the whole world o’er
and go from house to house?

Such mythological thoughts bestir
a wondering in my mind,
but yet thy full identity
is recognized in time.