Death of the Author

A small pin-striped bird alights on the dead cherry tree next to the porch & starts gleaning its breakfast from crevasses in the decaying wood. At length I remember its name, black-and-white warbler— & in so doing, forget the name of the author whose Collected Shorter Poems I hold in my lap. They’re orphaned for more than a minute by my poor memory. If I can just get the first letter… something beginning with a G, perhaps? That letter like a smile warped into a grimace… Or a T, that tall gallows. The warbler stops to issue his usual six whispery notes. Bill Knott.