Early Morning Revelations

In my night riding I climb
to where three trees once
stood. The wind blows the
branches of the highest one.

He motions me to forget
the dawn and remember the one whose water made the wood
rust a deep red. My cab

driver stops at all green
lights. His meter runs
time. Time.
We were robbed at midnight.
I can ride no more.
The thief was a friend.

Buffalo Mountain

Mountain snow when the stream has dried. Crystals  hold all
that has died.

In the Spring a sweet white wine, decanted
by the sun.

 Every Broken Thing


The Poetry Of Lance McKnight