For  Wallace Stevens
                               John Keats
                               John Donne


A little boy who I imagine grows to be tall—
A gorgeous pine of a man—stands on a shore
Steadily depleted for cement; he is From England;

As a “new planet swims into [my] ken” so too
Does he move to Maine: makes home with either sex.
When “contraries meet in one”

Does it vex him? Where’s any of his family?
Are there parents? If so, are they ripe, or overripe, for divorce?
Is his keeper an older sibling? He, right now, looks

Like a peace-keeper; it’s tempting
To pray for him but I believe he knows more than me
Doesn’t mean he’s guaranteed food and shelter; I should.

In my mind this kid’s been a Britisher in Kerala
But now I see I’ve addressed someone
Stereotypically “3rd-world”; you can call this

A mistake; could you say it’s the point of view
Of the sea—ramps the beach regardless
What’s there until it’s a nowhere.