This morning, arriving from Santos, they met the Delaware's floating ice. The river pilot climbed aboard and sighed for Brazilian beaches, then talked wind chill. Immigration rehashed last week's blizzard.
The butterfly girls come up the rope so quickly—
hand over hand from the dark—they seem to float.
Two hold the rope with their feet. The other two
don't use feet at all—their thin arms so wiry,
young bodies underweight. Once over the rail