Meadow of matchsticks,
soon to be rekindled
by Spring the incendiary.

The exact flame of your blossoms
will ignite the passions
happily sapped by time–

Dripdrop their excess went
and now miners’ hats
light up like love before

your vein, the frame of which
is there to depict the drift,
the waste when I painted

all the review copies
they sent me. But those books
open to polar pages where you

and I weigh the ends of this
teeter totem down, you
at the head and nadir me;

where postmortem is
the aura of self-portrait,
its other half regained at last.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Bill Knott's poem Picture

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