While thinking about an old friend, the scene of
a story comes to me like a rumour
wrapped around a kernel of truth.
I write a sentence of it and then give up, discouraged
by a multitude of unanswered questions
and the stiff muscles of my mind.
Later, lying in bed, I tell you this
and as you ask the questions, the answers
step promptly out of my mouth
as though they'd been standing there
in the shadows the whole time, ripening,
and I wonder how many stories
I may have let go