is not turning the way you thought br it would turn, gently, in a little spiral loop, br the way a child draws the tail of a pig. br What came out of your mouth, br a riff of common talk. br As a sudden weather shift on a beach, br sky looming mountains of cloud br in a way you cannot predict br or guide, the story shuffles elements, darkens, br takes its own side. And it is strange. br Far more complicated than a few phrases br pieced together around a kitchen table br on a July morning in Dallas, say, br a city you don’t live in, where people br might shop forever or throw a thousand stories br away. You who carried or told a tiny bit of it br aren’t sure. Is this what we wanted? br Stories wandering out, br having their own free lives? br Maybe they are planning something bad. br A scrap or cell of talk you barely remember br is growing into a weird body with many demands. br One day soon it will stumble up the walk and knock, br knock hard, and you will have to answer the door.