I'll keep the rock of anger that you threw at me, although
it's in the way and ugly now, and I'm still stubbing my toe
and grazing my skin on its hard weight and rough edges.
I'll put it on the shore here and let these waves
wash over it, rubbing in salt and grit, until it turns
to a smooth and lovely pebble of bitterness, just
the size of a thumbstone perhaps, to carry about
in my pocket and touch now and then,
or put aside on the shelf and look at rarely.
Or maybe it will hollow down to form
a neat polished bowl, which I can hold
in my cupped hands, small and irregular,
but still quite suitable to contain
things best served cold.