In Conversation

You start and stop and start again, not knowing
where to begin. You try to think of it in terms 
of a conversation, but even then someone 

has to hand over a thread and wait for the signal 
to begin. You try to think of it as a game—
start and stop and start again, not knowing

where to go, afraid meander will turn to blunder.
And you want conversation that means something, 
not conversation with a general "someone"

who could be anyone and not the one you want
to talk to. You stir the substance of memory:  
start and stop and start again, not knowing

what you'll turn up, where it will lead— 
you know it goes deep, down to the water table. 
That's where you seek the roots of conversation.

When you stand at the lip of the well and call,
only your voice bounces back and echoes. Do it again,
start and stop and start again, not knowing but knowing:
in conversation you'd talk with someone besides yourself.