Look at that boy there,
where he silently sits
with cheeks afire and sandy hair.
He looks at the vespertine sky,
blanketed by blanched stars.
He looks to the moon up high,
its light shattered into shards
by his frosted apartment window.
Before he drifts into a dream,
does he recount the things
that set him there
in that pinewood chair,
the lone furnishing
burnishing this vista?
Had his ship not come in?
Had she sunk in port?
Why do his eyes,
sunken by consternation,
moor his reddened face?
With somber resignation,
he looks at the Eastern star
rising up from beyond
the white-capped trees.
Will the boy ever
exhale his unease?
Look at that boy there,
where he soberly sits
with a salt-watered countenance
until the morning sky is relit.