At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of. br Red and orange barges list and blister br Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy, br And apparently indestructible. br The sea pulses under a skin of oil. br br A gull holds his pose on a shanty ridgepole, br Riding the tide of the wind, steady br As wood and formal, in a jacket of ashes, br The whole flat harbor anchored in br The round of his yellow eye-button. br br A blimp swims up like a day-moon or tin br Cigar over his rink of fishes. br The prospect is dull as an old etching. br They are unloading three barrels of little crabs. br The pier pilings seem about to collapse br br And with them that rickety edifice br Of warehouses, derricks, smokestacks and bridges br In the distance. All around us the water slips br And gossips in its loose vernacular, br Ferrying the smells of cod and tar. br br Farther out, the waves will be mouthing icecakes —- br A poor month for park-sleepers and lovers. br Even our shadows are blue with cold. br We wanted to see the sun come up br And are met, instead, by this iceribbed ship, br br Bearded and blown, an albatross of frost, br Relic of tough weather, every winch and stay br Encased in a glassy pellicle. br The sun will diminish it soon enough: br Each wave-tip glitters like a knife.