Gregory Orr Poems

A black biplane crashes through the window
of the luncheonette. The pilot climbs down,
removing his leather hood.
He hands me my grandmother's jade ring.
...

I pass the old beggar who sits
sucking on a corncob pipe in the shade
...

This is what was bequeathed us:
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,
Left to us.
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A house just like his mother's,
But made of words.
Everything he could remember
...

The last tear turns
to glass on her cheek.
It isn't ice because
...

On the lawn, beside the red house
she taught me to slice deep
...

So that a colony will breed here,
love rubs together two words:
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Even as the last bars clang shut
and I start to rub the purple ache
clubs left on shoulders, ribs,
...

The derelict who lives on our street
looks like Whitman as a young man;
this summer he slept discreetly
...

Democratic National Convention
Atlantic City, New Jersey, 1964
They bob above us all afternoon—
...