What follows are examples of works I wrote in the earliest days of using the narrative structure to be explained in an upcoming post. I have reproduced here two poems and a story. The poems are not even close to my best: all of my later more mature poetry was lost in a hard drive crash. The first poem, 'Truth', was selected for the clarity of the narrative in it, even though I'm not very fond of it at all. The second, 'Three Hands on the Wheel', I selected as more representative of my poetry in general, and as an example of what it can be like when the narrative elements are far more submerged in the imagery. The short story, 'Mixed Company,' is a very short slice-of-life piece, and it's a good example of how subtly the narrative structure can be wielded if one wishes.

It was Rob and Mary-Ann and Alice.
Their idea -- I wasnt involved.
Though I was there, Im always there, but not involved.
Not even with my best friend, his girl, and her friend Alice,
she was the one who said it first.

But she only lit the fuse. It was Mary-Ann who dropped the bomb.
I of course said nothing. Ever.
Lets play truth. was what she said. Just truth.
Mary-Anns eyes widened. Then with a solemn nod
she set her bottle spinning. Alices foot got in the way, but I ignored that,
determined to take it all lightly. It wasnt my idea.

What would you do if I were pregnant? was the question.
I saw him panic for the first time, and I didnt like it the look of it,
And there was cold silence, until new words, harsh words, exploded.
The question itself had nothing to do with it. It was the person who had to
  answer it. It was him. Everything was him. How could he remain detached?
The truth was, finally, I couldnt. It was me, it was me.
  He was me. Throughout the shouting, I had to suppress a smile.
  I was reaping my reward.

Theyre criss-crossed.
(I doubt she notices.)
Its an optical thing, like human contact:
The telephone lines only seem to intersect.
She drives.

She thinks.
(Its a chemical thing, like grief.)
My sister never had a radio.
She liked the sound of the road it soothed her mind.
Maybe even now she hears it,
a spiritual thing, like pulse of the unborn.

And she thinks about what shed have done differently,
if she could ever have done it at all.
I had to be the one.
Its an existential thing, like, I mean,
shes worse than dead.

Linda entertained and abandoned two possible reactions to Phil's laugh before deciding that she would laugh, too. But only very lightly. Like a whisper. And not too hard on the smile.
   If she could have observed herself then, from across the dark wood table where Phil and Tim sat behind their Creemore ales, what would she have witnessed? A limber face aslant and amused, cigarette smoke oozing from glad and natural lips, and a shrug from a hazel eye. Right on, right on, said the shrug, in Linda's brotherly tone, to all the university crowd at The Sticky Wicket.
   "Right on," she said to Tim. "Hostels are a blast."
   "Nobody answered," Tim continued. "But I know they heard us, the manager sleeps on the main floor. Never break curfew at a German hostel. We had to crash in the back seat of some car, cramped and soaking wet. So much for the heavy petting."
   Tim grinned and Phil chuckled. His face was red. Linda drank some more beer. These new roommates of hers hadn't picked up on her little opening.
   She wouldn't push it. She could tell her own Europe tales another time. Above all don't push it, she thought. Don't push anything. Just let it happen. Let it go.

She made eye contact with Dave at the bar.
   "You know him?" said Tim.
   "Yes." Linda smoked patiently.
   Phil made eyebrows at Tim as a joke, but Tim brushed him off with a mild jerk of a smile designed to make Phil feel sophomoric. Tim had been working at being basically uninterested in things all night. Linda knew he wasn't going to break his languid pace by pursuing the matter. He raised the Creemore to his lips, and she took the opportunity to study his inwardly musing face. For a moment, she imagined his expression an unlikely contortion, a difficult pose. No, not so difficult. Her own expressions were not so difficult, she knew. These versions of selves fit them easily, like a second skin. They both sported the crafted confidence of people being who they want to be.
   And Linda enjoyed Tim. She looked forward to living across the hall from him, to words that might be exchanged in the kitchen, in the living room, perhaps even across their adjoining hall if they sat up late. She thought of it as a deliciously slow ballet, in which two dancers skirt each other, touching as if by accident, until finally they make eye contact and enter into a long surprising series of facial expressions.
   Something similar had happened with Dave, but the entire dance had been confined to this bar. And it had ended long ago. Linda was the one who had broken contact.
   She had her jean jacket in her lap now and made an excuse about having to make that phone call. It was a sudden impulse, to leave early, to leave them behind, to let them "catch up later", but it felt right, and Linda believed in that kind of feeling.
   She didn't have to think everything through. Sometimes, she just did things.

"Tim, Phil, this is Dave," she found herself saying. "An old friend." Dave released her from his old-friendly hug.
   "Going somewhere?" he said. She had been half out of her chair.
"Dave, I was just heading home."
   "Oh," said Dave. And then, "Hey, are you still living with your professor? What is it, on Robert Street?"
   Tim and Phil exchanged glances. She knew that kind of curiosity was a precious thing, especially with Tim. It was neither to be satisfied nor ignored.
   "No." she said. "These two goofs are my housemates now." She sat down again and removed the jean jacket.
   "Why don't you join us, Davey?" she said, and opened her brilliant smile to full throttle. "We were just talking about Europe."