Hour for Decision

In his own half-hour on the pier each man looks upon the sea's green back with his own eyes, seeing knotted seaweed snarls or, leaning harder on the rail, streaming strands of mermaid hair; foam spittle, or trains of old white lace flowing back from the heads of breakers; glints of light, like glass splinters whirling in a drain, or wriggling sea-sperm writhing toward the loose and fecund sand of many beaches.

Each man quiets his own loneliness, and shades his own eyes, smiling or snarling, while tons of hissing spray feed mussels on the pilings, colonies of tiny fish race wildly through the waves and dying suns glow briefly, like old dreams, in the spreading ocean well.