Memory snips around stories
Like a seamstress cutting patterns from the raw,
The material form. The old work of storytelling:
Tucking hems and mending holes.
Time splits, frays like a rope. Who's to say
If Beowulf slew Grendel first or
Speared the Niceras. Could he be in two places?
Could all stories be cut from one, and the same?
This fine weave is a tangle of lives,
And there is nowhere for a straight cut.
Before the telling comes the story, the story
Has one hero and one title: City.