WEBVTT

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Oh, here's the boy
who lost his shoe.

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Somewhat older.

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18, say.

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Standing on the shores of Crete
looking toward the Aegean.

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His silhouette black
against the sunset.

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The great burning sinking
sun as though a coin

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on which a black figure
had been impressed, minted.

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This is "Youth Stares
at Minoan Sunset."

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On the lap of the
mountain meadow,

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at the break of a cliff quarry,
where Venetians had once

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sawed their stone, soft
nag of surf far below foot,

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he stares seaward the
distance to sunset.

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The sky is rose hearted,
immense, undisturbed.

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In that light, the youth's
form is black, without emotion.

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And birds, gull nor
other, have no transaction

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in that inflamed
emptiness of sky.

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Mountainward, no bird cries.

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We had called once, we
were too far, too far.

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Molten and massy, of its
own weight flattening,

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the sun accelerates
downward, the sea,

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from general slate blue,
flaming upward now.

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Contact is made at
the horizon line.

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On that line, one instant.

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Once only the great
coin, flame-massy

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and with the frail human figure
thereon minted black, balanced.

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So suddenly is gone.

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A gull defiles at last
the emptiness of air.

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We are closer now.

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The black silhouette, yet
small, stares seaward.

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To our cry, it does not turn.

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Later, it will.

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And turning, sees us with a
slow and pitying happiness,

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a recognition born
of a knowledge

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that we do not yet
have or have forgotten.

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He spreads his arms to the sky.

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As though he loves it--

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and us.

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He is so young.

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