From the terrace, I can see the work of your fingers: the constellation Perseus, his sword, trailing the sea, fixed against the sky. The masterwork of light which lingers on the surface of the sea transfixes me.
The nightfall has blurred the place where your fingers bind ocean to air. Stepping off the dock, I shiver against the water, unmindful of my face, hushed and pale and unaware. And, who am I—quivering—
that you would give me heed? A moon-jelly ribboning beneath my feet glows faint like a ghost, its green light tangled in the weeds.
Me, personally, I think stories are starving to be told. I think there are millions there, jostling and elbowing To get to the parachute bay and snatching any chance Whatsoever, no matter how remote, to get themselves Told at last, or retold—the latter meaning born again, Really. Consider the immortality implications of that. Maybe stories are like kids who are ideas before flesh. Maybe kids are ideas who get laboriously fleshed out, Like novels. Maybe children are made of stories more Than they are of bone and hair and turkey sandwiches. Maybe the way to think of a teenager is as a wry story That's all verb and no object as yet. Maybe we guzzle Forty stories with every breath we draw and they soak Into us and flavor and thicken and spice the wild stew We are. Maybe we are all the stories we ever told and Will tell when they let us see their gleaming first lines. Maybe the future means a vast story that hates to wait. Maybe we are made of more stories we forgot than of Stories we think to remember. Maybe what we forget Are stories that realize they were in the wrong mouth. Maybe every story has to find the right teller. Maybe I Had to wait all this time to be able to tell you this story.