type of poetry

the ships are lying in the bay
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
before the solemn bronze saint
i love the old melodious lays
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
to come so soon to this imagined dark
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
pushing out, struggling vainly
i go my way complacently
some of the hurts you have cured
noises that strive to tear