Between her breasts was
a glass of water from
which I paused to sip myself

occasionally, to augment
the momentAnd since
I’ve failed to regain that thirst,

can it happen again when
I re-read the poems from
that night, still fragments

for the most part, forgive
me, I know one word leads
to the one right for it, but

I can’t stand an anthol,
a whole—the book held
by its pages together shows

its total tangents caught or is
that thought an adequate
lack of transition—there

are rules to excuse these
detours, yet I resent the facts
that run me offtrack

If I were linear called
and kin of rails, my schedule
my purpose with no choice, set

to refuse the switchshuttle
intent of this; and
say weather for instance

were similar, if rain
were the rain: like an express
it would never stop but

express itself in drops,
its destination contained
within the figure, no need

to take the Noah needle
swerving single-mindedly,
bound to change at the next

station although some claim
the immanent, the round
the bend one alone houses

all the sights the others
suppressed while others
sedentary, say there is

no need to proceed unless
vicarious, for whom a flyspeck
on the wall will fix fully

the ideal of what’s goal, be
the great meet metaphor
to greet our roamer with as

he returns from the endless
crash, the west of his word.
Pilgrims of the accord,

what lies beyond?   Faced
with this wait, this plexideath
present, this plain computer

pane, I’m goneIf life bye
(switchyard skyport harbordock)
is a processor of arrivals

and departures, can there be
a point at which the two mesh,
a Heisenbergian mote-spot

where bi-quarks mate
monosexually, where the map
disowns these double-junctures,

shedding its gathered tours
in disembarkment’s cloak:
it takes place guise, the twain

train comes goes, the terminal
time empties fills like a well
oasis, the desert’s depths

get piped together in sate
instant to create a kiss
memory, whereupon that

template that heartpump aims
to fructify the waste
render the sand fertile

facile—temperate it tries
overstrewn overmonsoon
to wade straits, facilitate

garden and wine-grove, grow
similitudes of old term-twines,
codesystems called rhymes,

a life sentence of coils
undermined yet constant
ark buoyed by breakers,

though lingering inside
every sign’s writing entails
a vine-pattern, erratic

struggling with the field
of its tributaries, till wow
revolves but pow stays put.

Because the hands are
what the arms would be
if they crumbled and

each thing falls into its lesser
extremities, its future
attributes/beauties, their

distant vista’s view veiled,
as if by glassIf she
shattered, I told her, she’d be me.


Bill Knott