January 2011
13 posts
A Winter Ship-Sylvia Plath
At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of. Red and orange barges list and blister Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy, And apparently indestructible. The sea pulses under a skin of oil.
A gull holds his pose on a shanty ridgepole, Riding the tide of the wind, steady As wood and formal, in a jacket of ashes, The whole flat harbor anchored in The round of his yellow...
