Mexicans wearing waders greet us
splash into the quarter-filled hold,
and thirty-four degrees as they pump it dry.
around tar-blacked pilings, sway-backed
Wet snow clumps down from the sky.
clouds sinking over the cannery,
fighting the damp and dark
They off-load sixty tons of herring.
hang steam puffs, big as buoys
They shuffle and shovel the fragile
The cork-yellow moon cracks the cloud cover,
Milky scales stick like stars
and I wish that I never have to leave here,
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