The Book of the Stories We Tell About Our Lives
There is only one:
of the night and its vast holdings
how the rivers have crashed in our sleep.
We might tell ourselves
it was something different:
the moonlight’s shadow of a raven on a cliff.
But it was really only time
to do the one thing that would
nearly kill you. Time to decide if you wanted to live.
There is the story
of the love, and there is the story
of the ways love left: how you could watch
a door in a faraway country
and hope it would enter again.
There were cliffs. There were drinks.
You slept on the roof
over the sea or in the soft white bed
with the view through the window of a mountain learning
In its hold. You turned
only as much as it would allow.
You have been bound to it, even on the trains.
The night, in the end,
will have been good to you.
When you return to it for good
All you did to escape from it will be there.