Matt Morton

In the film, the boy hears a crash and the leaf-
blower drops. In my room, a gasoline can. Swans
on a crystal lake in a country that is not this one.
Figure the heart as a suitcase. A music box.
Autumn blown every which way. It’s rained
like hell for weeks, but the cracked mug you left
on the fencepost won’t fill. This has been
said before. Please: on the day these feet leave
the earth, do not console yourself with flight.
Excuse me, this is my stop. I’ve tried to be small.

mmortonMatt Morton was a 2013 Finalist for a Ruth Lilly Fellowship and a Finalist in Narrative’s 30 Below Contest. His poems appear or are forthcoming in West Branch, The Cincinnati Review, Colorado Review, New Ohio Review, and 32 Poems, among others. Originally from Rockwall, Texas, he lives and teaches in Baltimore, where he is an Owen Scholars Fellow at the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. More can be found at: