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This poem appeared in the August 1995 issue of M.E.N. Magazine

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the way i land on my feet

depends on the way

i look at things

on the way down


even the smallest


will grow wings

and lead

to advances

in wrong thinking

and other times

the mere mention

of a name

related to

past mistakes

will settle in

and break

my train of thought

into a container

not much to my liking

but large enough

for drowning

in my own tears.

the long distance of substitutes

i reach for pictures

of beauty to

unveil her secrets

spread out before me

the garden opens

inviting my small fingers

to kiss the lips

of her altar

this church

i visit often

and only

when i am


Chris Knab

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