Four

And there lay five stones on the sandy shore

Their synchronous line from afar masking the variety 

One

     a perfect cube 

     save one chink 

much complicating the corner

somewhat distracting to the eye

Two
     translucent as fog
     smaller than the others
elusive in the white sand
save a single pink blemish

Three
     thin as paper and just as frail
     wide and long as a tall man's hand
crevices call for cracking between the layers
so many layers, so easily dispersed

Five
     smooth as the breeze
     speckled in a thousand shades
across a grey so deep the night forgot itself
and shadows slipped into greener hues

He didn't recall the feel in his calloused old hands

Or which he slipped in his pocket

Or that he had picked up any single one of them

But still he blamed the tailor for the hole

...and the loss.