Sunday, May 21, 2006

Bill Knott

(to RN)
Oh I know it must feel

To be the river—
Source of that force

Each field each flower
Each fountain seeks—

And then of course
I have to shiver

Remembering how—
How few of us ever

Make it down
These mountain peaks.

The candle's blue fingers trace
a window skyline.  Its ice
an archery of needles.  I seek
the sign, the making known
to me of now.  We live in a land
we can see to disappear.
The wither-gathered wind
rivering through a grove
of non-leaved nouns: these are
the months one must cling hard
to his habits, that mean horde.
Winter.  We must lean closer now
to see in each other's eyes
the cleft of witness
gape itself to give.
Closer.  Closer.  At times
we must even haven this
our place.


I heard the abide.

How low it was.
How loud it was.

How soon it ended.
And what it said.

I heard its words
poured, pouring
from the sky.

The clouds were frauds.

The froth lost its mind in an ear.

Bill Knott has posted most of his poems from the past 30 years on his
blog. He hopes to publish all of them there, eventually.