The Rocks

by Timothy David Rey

It's not much more
than communion
here
and rocks
as jaggedly displaced
as a mouthful of
Great White's incisors
that brings men to
lay
discarded dolls flung
aside, asunder in
mass contortion to
do nothing but wait
and taste granite
in spoonfuls and sip
mossy waters and gaze
upon each other
in relief on stony
battered, cleft, cliff
teeth or else
transfixed to fix on
this:

waterwaterwater

no Fire Island sighted.