I've written a lot of poems on poetry.
And as most of us do, we write poetry.
And here's one titled Our Dreams.
I've wanted to write my way into paradise,
leaving the door open for the rest of us to walk into.
Instead I am scribbling beneath its walls
while the door remains shut.
What is the magic word?
Is there a magic word?
Am I standing beneath the walls of paradise?
Does paradise have walls?
Have I come to the right place?
[LAUGHTER]
Friends, strangers, and relatives look at me patiently
over sneers, or amused tolerance and crowd around me,
waiting for the door to open.
But all I can offer are those questions.
And they see me uneasy.
I sit down to lean my back against the wall,
to close my eyes, to rest, to sleep,
to dream of the paradise we were to enter at my words.
And I say to them finally, go and dream, too,
to quiet yourselves.
And perhaps imagine that in the dream
is where we live our dreams.