Harbor at Old Saybrook

    Where pageantries of peril flow quickly，

    a nightmare sea is breaking panes from below

    with stunted fists， but the lid of ice is heavy，

    and its fine ebony crazings barely show，

    except near the burly pier. A translucent crust

    on blackened caramel pulls from the pilings，

    leaving a moss of damp where the water crests，

    sloppy tar with cowlicks of wave， leaping，

    lapping， in faint starlight. Every sound

    skitters on stilts， or groans like a glacier calving.

    In seaward darkness， a multiple birth of island

    rides the slick horizon； a ship‘s bell rings.

    The body， like a pharaoh， covets the frost.

    At two degrees， things are preserved， not lost.