Sam Witt - Sunflower Brother
I had the opportunity to read with Sam Witt at The Writers Place in Kansas City on Wednesday evening, which reminds me yet again that my favorite reading experience, both as a reader and as an audience member, is for there to be two poets reading.
Sam’s new book, Sunflower Brother, is just about available . . . he had some advance copies, one of which is now happily in my possession.
Here’s one of the poems (from Sunflower Brother) he read:
I kissed your wrist,
your faintly burning page,
I kissed the sun to sleep—
What a little ocean I hold in my palm,
three stars and a sharp moon, what a little surf
burying itself wave after wave . . .
into coils of concertina wire, they freeze.
I can feel it, if I listen, if I close my eyes,
I can feel it, this breeze lifting its shadow
from the shadow of your hair,
on this coastline of skin anything can happen.
Your lips divide my ribs one by one.
The sun comes and goes with our name
on its lips, my fingers in love with the instant
it takes your breast to be there,
under my tongue. I wanted to believe
I could fold it into my pocket, this vacant lot,
this harvest of baby’s breath and broken glass, look,
the sky is touching the sky, O blue vein
buried alive in the neck: my kiss.