Every Broken Thing

Just Down From Kipp
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight
  
Just Down From Kipp

                               

This farmer fills wheat with promise
until even wind denies him. Finds himself
rooted in a theology even you
cannot consume. Prisoners stand in
columns for crimes that land defines.
If every row were a wrist, you could sever

countless veins and never die. It finally
comes to this: the stars we see at night
were never there, distorted as they are,
in atmosphere we often take for granted.

And now, we sit distracted, raise our glass
and pray to that God of unknown
layer. These crops were never ours -
and like ourselves, are soon abandoned.