Matt Morton

Wintering


Bulletbored, I stayed in bed.
So wrongly ever seemed to churn things out!
Grand old waterspout coming my way
I sing and sang to my half-broke brain.
Rather be spruce-bowered under a sun
than dead, but the cold world’s rather made as if
a hundred ghosts are asking up
and down the aisles of a blacked-out train,
whether I never liked them around or not.
Back there, far behind me? I splashed.
Time was, I held a woman laughing,
happy and sunmottled all in the waves and
cresting castles moated blue around us.
Wide open, time was. Bodies ago,
till now. Now, he’s a lonely pup
who thrashes filthy, like so: night through night,
I up and dream my downstairs thoughts,
while across the wallpaper lightning creeps
its fiery tarantella. Truth:
if this is not hell it quite resembles it.
If I didn’t feel so hapless small I’d flee all
vows, all crystal hymns, all—Oh, I see.

Matt Morton

Matt Morton is the recipient of the Sycamore Review 2014 Wabash Prize for Poetry, selected by Bob Hicok. He has been a finalist for a Ruth Lilly Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation and a finalist in the Narrative Magazine 30 Below Story and Poetry Contest, and his poems appear or are forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, Quarterly West, West Branch, and elsewhere. Originally from Rockwall, Texas, he lives in Baltimore, where he is a Lecturer in the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University.

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