in memoriam Bill Knott
With the cold front
came news of your death—
a failed bypass—
and a skim of snow
that vanishes at the sun’s touch.
Soon, only shadows are white,
like the letters
I keep trying to form
as my pen runs out of ink.
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For what it’s worth, that actually happened. My black ballpoint pen ran out of ink just as I was trying to draft this poem in my pocket notebook. Instead of the snow melts, I got the snow me.
I’m thinking Bill Knott would’ve had a much better idea what to do with that irony.
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the snow me
fades; yet we
must chisel language