Two men on the shore
one waits, the other
has long forgotten the waiting.
He crouches sifting pebles;
there is intent
to the way he sets a few
apart into the fold of his sleeve:
one a finely grained oval and one
that is small and bead-like and possesses
a hairline crack
for him to feel, much later,
with the flesh of his index finger
in times of anguish, for that chasm
he can bridge.