close behind

you have a story you are dieing to tell
again as you climb to the top of those vines
where we hid the key that night after the rain
storm that felt like summer in winter
and told ourselves this is how it is
and how it would be as we wait
in the morning remembering how cold
the other pillow was in the middle of
the night and trading the glory
of flannel drenched with the heat
cast off the radiator where the cat
sleeps after staring out the window
out over the horizon we can’t take
our eyes off of even though we know
staring is hard most of the time
and so turn away as quick as we
encountered and told our allegory
of how when we drink we need to
here the words of those that can’t
drive us home and remind us that
in a cocoon of cascading calendars
we are not supposed to meet those
that cause question to become quandary
like, we know!, we say, we play
in between the paragraphs of growth
that flow faster than sentences left
in a stream sliding past the house
we worry isn’t built by our hands
but by the hands of every necessity
that is higher than the lowest deed
but is still perfect in the moment
and is exactly the story we hope
is written after we climb the vines
to the place where we hide the key
after a night of trying to hide
our belief.