Bill Knott

(1940 - 2014 / Carson City, Michigan)

Face in the Window


I am a modest house, a house solely
notable for the fact I lived here once.
Its brass plaque depicts an oxygen eye
in which two pupils of hydrogen dance.

Downstairs is where I lit fires whose insights
with approach-velocity froze me, then
singed off into flame. This always happened when
I came close to a truth. Months passed. Years. Nights.

Shall I accommodate myself again,
a humble aquarium of lordly
thumbs, some fin de species? Of course each word

the blackout-moth mutters to my keyboard
shows the snowiest letter on this page is “I”—
must I now plumb its one remaining pane?

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Rookie S. A. S. (8/2/2008 10:27:00 AM)

    'each word/

    the blackout-moth mutters to my keyboard
    shows the snowiest letter on this page is 'I' '

    I end up so intrigued by Bill Knott's language that I become a repeater, pulling out certain lines, and of course,

    reading the whole poem outloud. (Report) Reply

Read all 1 comments »

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