This close
his lips pursed we could tell
how the slow opening phrase rose and broke through him his face

clogged his bow
arm rising and rowing how the music
eddied how he labored bearing the weight of memory and longing

over the water
how the body bends the mouth
works open gawping slaunchways in pain the stinging discharge

of song
how his cheek gleams the melody
surging like oil blood and honey the pouting and soft grunting

the way we look
making love in the dark the face
rapt the tongue ransacking its room the beautiful human face

the seed pearl
of spittle flecking the lip the smile
or leer or wince this pushing and hurting this bringing forth

Fierce, controlled, inventive, forward-rushing, refusing punctuation to make free with syntax, John Witte’s cycle of severely unrepetitive three-line-stanza poems left me with endless questions and a durable satisfaction. There are poems here – “As If” is one – which I will never forget.

-Ursula Le Guin