Recondite in knowing, they grimace
against the claim. "Who am I,"
he murmurs. "Who am I?"
he screams. Their faces crumble
like hot sand cast into snow or rust
flung against stone. Burdened crust
lined eyes press hard into sleep. This night

there will be no visions. No unconscious whisper
will drone on until dawn. They
succumb like moths thrown in among cloth,
lain forgotten too long in drawer. We, too,
engorge ourselves as if unseen; wait for moment
of light - if only to clamor for flame. To perish
in silent release, never to know savior,

God or spirit. Finally saved, waiting
for bread - offered on mantle as claim
we will never vanish as we crash
into glass, heat and pain. Yet know that,
one day, even we will cease to dream.
Condemned by a scandalous grace.

                                        for Shane Claiborne

 Every Broken Thing

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight