Where pageantries of peril¹ flow quickly，

    a nightmare sea is breaking panes² from below

    with stunted³ fists， but the lid of ice is heavy，

    and its fine ebony crazings barely show，

    except near the burly pier⁴. A translucent⁵ crust

    on blackened caramel pulls from the pilings，

    leaving a moss⁶ of damp where the water crests⁷，

    sloppy⁸ tar⁹ with cowlicks of wave， leaping，

    lapping， in faint starlight. Every sound

    skitters on stilts¹⁰， or groans¹¹ like a glacier¹² calving.

    In seaward darkness， a multiple birth of island

    rides the slick horizon； a ship‘s bell rings.

    The body， like a pharaoh， covets¹³ the frost.

    At two degrees， things are preserved， not lost.