Poems by Glen Armstrong
The Bathers #10 I never tire of this rhythm though it wears down shards of glass, and there are others who tire of everything, even their own arms and legs, even the sun and the unique smell of forgetting (always clean, never sterile.) In touch . . . we had every intention of staying, but the notion of place (location if not position) is almost universal- ly misunderstood. What should I do if one of them speaks to me, and the only language I remember is sunshine?
Rain and Rhetoric
She accuses water
of lawlessness,
dead birds of littering,
train delays of stuttering,
comic books of treason.
To say the least,
we've had or differences.
•
What's within me is not
always inclined
to make decisions.
I purchase red cabbage
on a whim.
Some ends up in the slaw
and some withers.
I listen to the rain.
I try to roll with the punch.
About the Poet:
Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His latest book is Night School: Selected Early Poems.
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