Who whispers here is forgotten. <br /> <br />Saliva's emptiest fruit <br />adorns the stones, <br />words ripening your mouth <br />to a spoilation <br />of silence. <br /> <br />Who speaks here <br />reads a text that downloads <br />the screen of his fingernail, <br />through which nothing's visible <br />as glass is. <br /> <br />For the memorial <br />we must kneel <br />to pick each flower <br />from amongst its modifiers: <br />but to do that <br />one needs a hand bared <br />of all uses, of all trades: <br />as ours is not.<br /><br />Bill Knott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cemetery/
