"Half Hour to Aberdour"

Late August, your estuary, now/Flattens gray, and the eroded/Pilings stagger from landfall/Like upside-down legs, or...humps, or/Hulks, or afterlives of hills,As if to ask," Where will you return?"

Here, Sir Patrick Spens/And his good lords/Capsized so deep under the/Sea in the rain-black, ballad/Passages of the Norton anthology/Of poetry in English, it's still scarcely/English at all.

Read at The New Yorker