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(In Between Bites)

The memory of a feeling is caught

like a pebble in my shoe

I turn it over and again

run a thumb across the surface

trace cracks and mineral veins

polished as smooth as rocks in a tumbler

rough edges buffed until

I’m not sure what is gritty truth and

what shines with time

I keep the memory close

fingers glide over polished skin

of the hard and perfect thought

Would you recognize it now?


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