Every Broken Thing

Firehole

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight
  
                    
                Firehole                               
  

If the tongue is fire, then what
is this? Ink smeared about
from one edge to another - lines,
loops, curls and a flourish barely
kept within borders, with a carelessness
that denies God, good sense
or its final destination. Trying to

reclaim words with anger unrequited
and spewn far beyond return.
Wading mid-stream and forgetting
whether you're here to lure trout or
escape the flame. Floundering about
in vain. Not even the entirety of this

river could constrain a blaze begun
deep within and capable of burning
beyond any boundary. Standing
mute, lest a single utterance escape,
work its way to shore and
consume the entire forest. Selah.