Memory

The aquamarine- or turquoise-colored rock that,
as a child, you picked up and pocketed and kept
tucked away: no longer there. You can check;
your fingers will encounter nothing
except the nothing you don’t expect.

Not the nothing-special bit of brick you chipped
off the old broken-down wall back home, or
that accepted-offering shard of sea glass,
or even any of the indistinct pebbles that did
or did not sometimes wake sleeping windows.

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