Bill Knott: 2 Poems

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The following are two poems by Bill Knott. To read more of his work, please visit: Not Poetry Blog

THE POEM IS ALIVE

The critic’s hand cured by atrocity
Sharpens the next dictator’s homily

Gripping cash beneath arctic lamps
The uncompiled umpires run through fields

The pheromones have gone home
To a cathedral catheterized by eels

Above the wheat’s bending amen-figures
Night convinces the day to wait for us

Upstairs with all the rest of the frauds
I remain with my finest demonstratives

Of course the poem is alive to its limits
To the length that composition permits

CEMETERY

Who whispers here is forgotten.

Saliva’s emptiest fruit
adorns the stones,
words ripening your mouth
to a spoilation
of silence.

Who speaks here
reads a text that downloads
the screen of his fingernail,
through which nothing’s visible
as glass is.

For the memorial
we must kneel
to pick each flower
from amongst its modifiers:
but to do that
one needs a hand bared
of all uses, of all trades:
as ours is not.

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