Walking out toward Pigeon Island
I pass men fishing from the rocks
with breaded hooks and baited looks
returning smile for knowing smile.
Suddenly I'm caught -- for a moment poised
between an earthquake and a noise
which groans from faults that lie below
and pound as ground grinds ground.
Excitedly the seagulls flock
to scraps of fish left on the rocks:
the sky is full of stink and cry
as squall carries squall and sewage.
Beneath the skin, his scent, a sigh:
My smile returns his knowing smile.