Jeremy Reed
A MOMENT'S HESITATION
Squeezed down the rock stair before dawn,
canting its tortuous limber
to keep pivot against a sheer
wind-shaft that would unskewer,
rock, person, or car, five hundred
feet into a hoarseness of foam,
boiling with that unappeasable
glare, siphoned from the Atlantic's
aorta, its incessant stun
of grey smoke. And in a recess
heard them. A man's fingering voice
pressing another's hesitance
into a tractable wheedling,
turning as though upon glass, half
disputing the opium's price,
half climbing to create a hold
in the remoteness, a tactile
resonance against danger,
a thermometer line in the
dark . And wondered at going on
down, while such enmity wagered,
listening in turn for my boat's
taciturn signal, and afraid,
while implacable seabirds roused.
