Hooks, Bones, and Knots

As of now, the past’s all at once,
And that goes for all now, all time.
So a tale must drag torn-up past,
If true, if false, all lies, all facts,

If the tale’s told straight, day to day,
Date to date as the sun, or loops,
Twists, hops, clips, cuts, leaps, and so on.
All tales hack whole pasts to small shreds

They lay out in new sewn-up lines.
They have to do that—that’s the art.
If you choose to yank the line clean
You’ve still pulled that thread from the rest.

So what is the tale of your life,
Each such tale, all such tales, if not
Thin, stripped-down, chopped-up sales of parts,
If you speak them, or write them, or

Tell them and tell them to the dark?
You could trawl near when you were born
Or you could steer clear of clear marks.
It’s all there, all at once, right now,

And if you haul on some bits, more
Might come up in your nets, weird eyes
And lures, grave shapes you thought were gone,
Which means there’s still more in the depths.