Salvages

Among the beachstones, some
wink at you, sunwet.

Rocks you would not think
of pocketing, if you met them dry,
ride home knocking against your thigh.

Next day, ranged upon the sill
they are nothing if not dull,
these mute lumps—grainy and grey.

Where are the glints that caught your eye?
What made you pick them?

Lick them.

Copyright © 2004 Robyn Sarah All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission