Poems by Glen Armstrong
The Shower
Surely something must be
removed to let the April
rain rejuvenate that shiver
no sliver of perfume
stands up to the season
secreting letting its secrets
be known in one fell swoop
set the hula hoop on fire
break the engagement
let Johnny Cash’s endless
assessment of falling
wash away with the rain.
The Bedside Book of Arcadia
1.
Making love midday in a field
to reveal
a place equally
real and unreal.
2.
Words on a scroll and birds
using air.
Those without partners
use wooden chairs
3.
Perplexing divides that keep us
from each other’s heads.
There would have been documents
had we wed.
4.
If our hands, imagination and front
yards must be stained,
best by wild violets.
No quarter. Nothing gained.
When She Dances at Bonnaroo
she sees the big grey thunder
god’s prehistoric face.
She offers her little hand
skyward and smiles as if acknowledging
the end of a season or an era
or an epoch or a song.
She’s like a window in search
of something opaque,
a stone in search of an eye,
a key in search of a stone
or none of the above.
Like me, she has learned a few
little moves that pacify devils,
a little lather, rinse, repeat
that draws attention to her feet
where the infinite tosses loose change.
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.
