Waving At The Flame

        In this generation, poets never go out
        hungry. They ravage the church like Syrians
        gone wild on ergot. Unless that religion is
        worth martyring one's self for - with oodles
        of collateral damage. Gathering up on
        The Hill for pulls of strong espresso. Striving
        to climb up some fourteener in Colorado.

        They suffer not from Post Traumatic Stress,
        yet engage drama in ways that make you want
        to strip off garments as they claim freedom
        from any format. Never growing old, lacking
        blossom, as you sprint off to cut, spike,
        and burn burley in strong winds, rather than

        endure their exhalations in some confined
        enclosure or published at twenty bucks a pop
        in some new literary endeavor. As if terror or grief
        or abject suicide producing loneliness is competition
        worth writing for. Waiting years to resolve
        that final question. The one you never can recall.

                                                        For Jack Gilbert

 Every Broken Thing

Waving At The Flame

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight