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It's Not Yet Two O'Clock

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The water is bleached by the sky
The birds which traverse it
Are pale, slight
As needle and thread.
The shadows are spindly,
Thin and chilled.
The creosote is frozen without the bold sun
And I can step barefoot
Across the piers, as I wish.
The elements are uncomfortable with each other,
No warmth pertains to the sun
It shines obliquely through
The infantile haze;
It is unable to
Brighten the shorefront,
It is unwilling to
Heat the broadside of the barge,
Immobile, black, and gargantuan.
It's almost four now,
The tankers drift with the tide
As flood turns to slackwater turns to ebb,
They change the way they point,
And as beastly as they are,
They do it quietly;
They do it while I look away





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