Glen Armstrong

GLEN ARMSTRONG


To Behold

Her nothing more than moonlight
is something to behold.

And the humble nests of locusts.
And pinfeathers of crow

that hold as steadfast against the wind
as diamond rings and cast iron

weather cocks, weathered beyond recognition.
The leaves rustle and the clocks

fall in love with the walls.
The woman with the lemon-flavored hair

dares the dead moth to resurrect,
to upgrade its broken wings

to moonlight, to plague us,
to rise and intermarry with the sky.


A Brief History of Metaphysics

I went back to my body, back to the fighting and silence. I studied astronomy and scolded the alcoholics for kicking stray dogs. I had survived paradise. I was not only in the market for, but in  the flea market foraging for, a vintage Masonic fez pin. “Now that’s a desirable piece,” said the  white-haired woman at her booth, and I could tell by the triangulation of lip, cheek and eyelash  that she had been quite the desirable piece in her day as well.


The World Is Round

I am a cricket.
I am a cosmonaut.

I am a tire.
This is the Space Age.

I am a town.
I am a white shirt.

I am feeling more
myself again.

The rain falls down
upon the asphalt.

I am August.
I am steam.

The dreams of pigeons
should be

more detailed
than the dreams

of crickets.
I am a piece of the puzzle.

I am a thick stew.
I am trying to find

my place
on the big round ball.

I am an egg.
I am talking.

I am a piece of chalk.
I am the gall

of some people
and the gallantry.

I am not the only.
I am a destination.

The sun should never be.
I am a nation

in mourning.
I am an ordinary day.

It’s amazing
what people get used to.

I am blue.
I am a picture

on the sidewalk.
I am talking myself

into talking.
I am the time it takes.

I am 1965.
A blind girl

plays the piano.
I am the world

flanked by laurel
upon her lapel.


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