Every Broken Thing

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

        She doesn’t swerve and sway – say, like her exhaled smoke 
        drifts upward, wafting its way across faux ceiling tiles,
        flattens out toward carriage ducts intended for a far less grand 
        purpose we now take for granted. Or a cat – a cloud

        lazily flowing about like a poem – random yet descript. No, more
        like the sudden thrust of metal, twisting through air, launched
        by ancient vessels, perfectly harvested vines, ravaged and racked
        with the skill of a forensic pathologist. And now, placed with

        ever so much geometric care in gold-plated trays, preceded
        by unleavened crusts we view as so much flesh, flushed down
        the throat as blood, fermented and poured – as if time was
        a theological constraint – drawn off the way purged fluids unfurl

        quick off table to floor and curl clockwise down the drain. 
        Followed by prayer, remembrance and toasts of unfettered vintage.