Every Broken Thing

Reading At The Wesley Chapel
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

Reading at the Wesley Chapel

            So odd your words, entombed
            by stained glass, that cross fixed
            iridescent to the wall. Tobacco stains
            brown against your palm; coffee - as always,
            antacid nearby. For some your sleep
            was timely, the state
            distant, yet reveled by Roethke in demise.

            Friend in Montana, the time between
            strikes becomes a footprint
            for your soul. There are no reservations
            here. God marks the miles with booze
            lain long forgotten. For your words
            I kiss my wrist, suck blood to
            the upper layer. Is water

            all we see, or is it still,
            gasping for your line? I dream you
            huddled midstream begging trout for more
            prayer, wind moaning hymns
            for your communion.

            Sad day for the Dolly; I make love to
            a blonde with lead weight 
            in my arms. This is her response: 
            make tongue recall wind on ripples of the river
            Forget the past in robes of a monk.

                                                           for Richard Hugo