Worked over by philosophers
until the rubbed surface is free,
closer to a sea-worn pebble
sanded smooth by relentless tides;
like the one lingering deep
in a jacket pocket
when summerís overóthe one
you picked up, couldnít throw away,
the one your hand returns to.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, D.A. Prince would be
pleased to hear them.