Blackbird Archive← v7n1, Spring 2008Poetry · Volume 7, Number 1
South Boston Morning, ’53:
The sea is dark and choppy.
So far, out on the vellum streets
only taxis.
Three nuns sit on the stone bench
and study the storm without contempt,
without leaping into the arms of it—
though wild brides they may be,
though sea air, in heavy volume,
is pushing the dull grey farms
of New Hampshire
into a long familiar misery—
the Sisters
are their own dark umbrellas, folding
among the winter trees.
