(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?