by Adam Sass
What stories have you been telling yourself
When all the lights are out and the lives of strangers
Uncoil behind closed doors like snakes at winter’s end?
How do they begin?
With a young man at a station, arriving, departing?
With two students in a class, under a tree, in a too-narrow bed?
With a flock of strange birds leaving a cave or perching on your eaves?
Are your eyes open for the telling, or closed?
Do your lips move, or your tongue?
Would a cat hear you if it curled round your head,
Ear to your cheek, or would it know silence, and sleep?
Will you remember them in the morning,
Write them down on a napkin or between private covers?
Or will you wish them away – the station, the tree, the bed, the birds –
Open the door, and slip out among strangers?
What stories have you been telling yourself, and how do they end?