Conversations

 
I don’t know if poems are conversations
           with God, though I tell my students to think
of poetry as a way to enter a conversation 
           that has been going on through the centuries,
but one in which they can add their voices. 
           At this point, I try to think of a party
analogy, though I have never been very good
           at parties. More likely, I would be among
those who sit on the edge of a couch pretending
           to nibble thoughtfully on an hors d'oeuvre, 
one among a rapt circle listening to the life of any 
          party pulling out one brilliant silk square 
after another from inside his sleeve as beautiful
          birds of thought flutter in the air.

When all the guests are gone and we have gathered
          the napkins, piled the glasses on trays, and wiped
the counter clean, I want to ask those birds a question 
          (where have they gone?) which is really two 
questions, or more—What is the best way to enter, 
          and what is the best way to end? I’m asking 
about poems, of course; but also about the beautiful
          chaos past the middle of this life. One part of me
loves order: an empty hamper, the laundry folded, the sink 
          scrubbed clean. Another part of me loves improvising.
This one turns off the 6:30 alarm and goes back to bed; it wants 
          to return to a dream where I am having conversations with 
people I love who are gone. One of them says don’t hold back,
          spend it all now; another says wait and see, there’s more.