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.

by Bill Knott

Comments (5)

Such a well-penned poem by Bill Knott👍👍👍
An interesting poem well done.
Oh this is as majestic, stately and dignified as the Cemetery.........so stirring and moving emotionally.......... thanks for sharing
(Cemetery by Bill Knott.) **Of doleful expressions.
I'm a little bit lost in the cemetary, but the last stanza has me lingering as I read it again and again.