port newark-elizabeth

every small storm starts an endless tremor,

and the shipping captains watch the terminal

lights grow bright-blinding as the current washes

ashore the bay-side hum of usual commerce-

from aden, the sun was unbearable, straddling the

latitudinal prison-bars until day happened right

at the moment of crossing, perched on the ship-deck

and crawling inside the containers, nested like a

hitchhiking horror from a small corner of the world;

this place, now, is only gearing for spring and

the water takes the light in, distorts it in color

and drowns it down to where night sleeps, curled

up the brown mud deep below this lullaby of industry.

they exchange news on shore, and it's all the same

and someone talks about another oil run up the indian

spine and in the corner where dawn will break first,

the red-winged blackbirds are stirring, small sounds

of morning growing louder and louder as the sun breaks

through and the birds fly off, a clatter of wings,

louder and louder.