It appears Bill Knott has died, for real this time, the bastard. He gave me money once when I needed it. I didn’t ask him to, he just sent me money. He’d send me hand-painted books from time to time. If there’s some other crazy world where he is now, which he doubted, & I doubt, I hope he knows what a pain in the ass he was, & how much we loved him.
they will be finishing the poems you broke away from.
When I walked to the mill
To take up the slack in the line
I thought of my friends
And the troubles they’ve had
To keep me from thinking of mine