I didn't want to wait on my kneesIn a room made quiet by waiting. A room where we'd listen for the riseOf breath, the burble in his throat. I didn't want the orchids or the traysOf food meant to fortify that silence, Or to pray for him to stay or to go thenFinally toward that ecstatic light. I didn't want to believeWhat we believe in those rooms: That we are blessed, letting go,Letting someone, anyone, Drag open the drapes and heave usBack into our blinding, bright lives.

(A poem can lie.)

Is it strange to say love is a language Few practice, but all, or near all speak?

In the '70s, everything shone as bright as brass.

This is why I love poems: they invite me to sit down and listen to a voice speaking thoughtfully and passionately about what it feels like to be alive.

This is why I love poems: they require me to sit still, listen deeply, and imagine putting myself in someone else's unfamiliar shoes. The world I return to when the poem is over seems fuller and more comprehensible as a result.

Look, I want to say,The worst thing you can imagine has alreadyZipped up its coat and is heading backUp the road to wherever it came from.

Often it is a moment rather than an event that makes a poem.