Bruce Morton

 Trout

There in the water,

Waiting, elusive,

In the shadow,

In the deep pool,

Against and under

Current and bank. It rises

Forever hungry,

Caddis, mayfly, midge,

Stonefly, hopper, nymph,

With speed to the surface

To sup, then laid soft,

A wet Klimt in the creel.

Caught in the art—

Speckle, sparkle, gold,

Red, brown, black, all shine

And color, then a fast fade.

In the telling it will feast,

Growing ever larger.

A light brush of oil,

The sear of pan or grill,

Tenders flakes of gold.

Requiem

He was his own instrument

Played to his own demise, whiskey

Fueling a burn that dimmed

Clarity, feeding and consuming

The flame that ate wax and wick.

It was hard to sit and watch, as his

Fingers, chalk-white, splayed wide,

His hands still at his side. It was to be

A difficult death, the fog of brain, fugue

Of pain, then refrain, then again, as organs

Each In counterpoint would not perform

In concert. Slow flicker of white neon

House lights, the only sound their hum

And green blink of pulsing monitors

Measuring metrics of mortality, clicking

Inexorably toward the inevitable flatline.

Nursed in a ward by nurses who care

For him as if he may be the last lost man-

Boy adrift in a bloat in this small room.

Not even a ward really, a small space,

A place where the dying lie by and to

Themselves as they press from memory

The keys to some intricate scale, while we

Who sit there pretend hope. Knowing

The score will not suffice then, when

Pedals swell and bellows no longer

Work and pipes wheeze. Controls stop.

An alarm sounds: shrill—loud—chilling.

Cold enough to freeze the warmest tear.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in many magazines, most recently San Pedro River Review, Ibbetson Street, 433, Plum Tree Tavern, and ONE ART. He has a chapbook, Olive-drab Khaki Blues, forthcoming from Alien Buddha Press.