The cleaning of trout is determined 
                    by blood. Sleek from current, 
                    played fast to avoid lactic 
                    and destruction of skin, decided 
                    by hook piercing jaw, just nicking 
                    the vein. But blood betrays spirit 
                    like a decrepit Christ. This one, 
                    long since baptism endured it to river, 
                    is claim for the meal. Rose 
                    too quick, rolled too 
                    late for release. At shore 
                    sharpened blade penetrates 
                    vitals; drawn straight to gill, cradled 
                    in river, splayed open like petals 
                    in a storm. The purple nerve etched clean 
                    by thumbnail – enticing that final quiver. 
                    In pictures their eyes strain 
                    ever downward, always to water. Here, glazed 
                    in thoughtless frost, opposed. The flesh 
                    wrapped damp in wildflower and weed, 
                    about to service home.

 Every Broken Thing

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight