Would he rather be
the storyteller or
a story told
with nails? A hammer or
a sickle threshing prairie
grass on a roof
overlooking a bridge
where lost

stories go to–
to do what? To leap
over faith toward a longer
narrative, or to jump
into an abrupt ending, or
to cross with others
to the other side
of a river

that never gets named. Then what?
It’s too late

to become a lyric
gesture, sound turned
down low.