These jagged white teeth that leer from the shade
and are rotting under the grasp of moss
menacingly mirthful in mess they've made
care not for his troubles nor for your loss.
Instead they goad him into glaucous grips
willing him to be consumed by the scud
until rolled over by the wave's wet whips,
tossed like a pebble into banks of mud.
Those 5.7 seconds recalled years;
a lifetime condensed into a fraction
and as the philosopher of Algiers
he imagined Sisyphus' satisfaction.
But in that time he could not change his way
to the cliff's delight and his friend's dismay.