In my personal mythology the screen door is amongst the pantheon. Mine is an old screen door, wood-framed and warped, scuffed and cat-scratched, patched and pressed into. It never quite latches, just thwacks against its doorsill and remains open by a crack.
Recently, thanks to the good people at Open Books who know every book by every poet ever, I discovered the work of the poet Bill Knott. I was stunned to learn that he was from a little town in Michigan called Carson City, about ten miles from the little town in Michigan where I grew up.
It would be hard to overstate how little these towns are. Between them are backroads and farmland, soybeans and potatoes.
Barns and farmhouses.
Here’s a Bill Knott poem I spent some time with this morning:
What if we never entered then—
Here’s more about Bill Knott from The New York Times. His selected is called I Am Flying into Myself: Selected Poems 1960-2014, and is edited and introduced by Thomas Lux. Have a good weekend. Thanks for reading.