Garry Knight
CC Some Rights Reserved
This is the nicest dress you have ever
seen in moss-wind, blowing over the cliffs;I am standing here, there are the lows, lifts,
and great moments—there is a sound, tremor
emanating from the mountain's side, lore
of dragons who have swallowed princesses.
The flakes of gold fell in drifts of snow, myths
two feet deep that melted, flood—more
vanquishing than all previous troubles,
crippling our deepest intentions at love,
making communion too intimate, wine
next to a poet, and winery next to bubbles
floating over the freshly mowed green, doves
on the pear tree that was wick back in time.
