Gary Witt Poems

Blue clouds bend toward a red sun that hangs
In the air like shoes from a telephone line.
Crimson dawn has crept in with the smell of hay
And the silence of sleeping crickets, as light
...

I.

Two, please,
In the loge—
...

swirling death marbling our lives
does not approach us from the front
but from the side, from our inside;
mortar of our mortality mixing,
...

What small desires I have.
How miniscule, how puny they are;
So simple, when taken separately,
Yet they gather, great in number,
...

who was the first to stand,
brushing ancient dust
from calloused knees,
to walk from the golden calf
...

The man stares at you
Across smooth, smoked oak.
His head emerges from his shirt
Like a pyramid from the sand.
...

One taffeta evening near the Bastille,
A place bustling with sangria,
Des truffes, et parfum très cher,
Their waiter, starched and polished,
...

Every moment,
We may say who we shall become
In the next.
...

People in their cars do not think this way,
But when the wheels of a motorcycle roll
Onto a road freshly milled, stripped, and grooved,
Handlebars become animated and rebellious,
...

I’ll sing you a song of your life,
Following twists and turns
To know where you’ve been,
To guess where you’ll go.
...