Rites of Passage

I separate summer clothes from winter, choose the books
I cannot do without, sometimes I even say goodbye.
But it’s always really abandonment, the unmade
bed, the wet towels, the half-smoked cigarette,
the half-finished bottle, and the sleeping body,
each thing undone in its own way.
I tell myself that stories never end,
you just need to know the right place
to step out of them.