Every Broken Thing

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

         This time no green to weigh
         you down - no bronze
         to falter, tarnish or drift
         beyond horizon. You try
         to rein in life as if by twitch

         or godless claim wild monks
         scream out. Moaning hard to
         weather, snow or mountain.
         Forcing it down like politics

         or theology ill-defined. Sold
         by hucksters to foreign raiders.
         Molded as clay; fired
         and dismal in display.