reading bill knott. thinking about a friend who introduced me to his first books. i lapsed. i just read the friend died in january. i'm sad we lost contact. reading knott i was transported to my own memory of an elementary school pencil sharpener and chalk cloud erasures on the blackboard and beating the felt erasers outside and dust in my eyes and on my clothes and i also felt inside the poem as though i was writing it at the same time. knott now has been a ghost for 12 years and my friend no longer responds after my lapse. it makes me sad but it helps to feel.