Before It Moves

I tipped the jar above the cup

and waited for it to pour.

Nothing moved. I held the angle.

Counted. Waited more.

The dark mass gathered at the lip,

considering the drop.

Twelve seconds before it gave.

The afternoon had stopped

the same way—gathered, edged, not yet.

I've been forty-five degrees

for months. Arm extended. Waiting.

Whatever falls, it falls by these

slow terms, not mine.

The cup below: still clean.

The molasses at the brink.

The counter in between.