for Mike Felton
Somewhere in nature’s rich molecules, my
old frat bro breathes air clear as those daydreams
at dawn floating optic nerves of monks’ eyes,
flowing like my old frat bro on a stream
or river, I don’t know quite where. The Milk
maybe, north of Bearpaw Mountains and south
of Canada, or Musselshell, its silk
swirls slipping him past Roundup. The trout’s mouth
tests high, muddy currents—recent offspring
of this cold, rainy season—awaits line
and my old frat bro’s lure, with Mike glancing
at sun winking through Ponderosa pines.
At night, crackling campfire’s smoke rises far
past trees, signals love songs to glowing stars.
Roger Armbrust
June 11, 2008
