Bill Kohl, 1938-2011
John W. Bing Dec 5, 2013

Here, somewhere, everywhere, lies a man
neither famous nor infamous.

Born in St. Louis, he sculpted visions.
He was a friend of mine when we were both outcasts.

Owing me money, he melted in metal
a dark angel, black,

a mottle of metal, molten, on a field
of black emptiness.

He gave me this angel, in exchange,
and I became the debtor.

The angel has flown in my imagination ever since
it was destroyed by a feline shadow

making a senseless leap, which dislodged the angel
to fall like Satan into darkness, cracking into memory.

In time, all falls into darkness,
sways, trembles, cracks, splinters.

Do we mourn the sculptor or what he created?
There is no difference.