Here you will find the Poem Cemetery of poet Bill Knott
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.