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.
from King Vulture, The University of Arkansas Press, 2005