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Wet Wharf | by Geoff Trotter
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Wet Wharf

All night they whine upon their ropes and boom

against the dock with helpless prows:

these little ships that are too worn for sailing

front the wharf but do not rest at all...

Tugging at the dim gray wharf they think

no less of Africa. An east wind blows

and salt spray sweeps the unattended decks.

From a poem by Arna Bontemps

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Taken on June 4, 2011