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.