Three poems – Glen Armstrong

Glen Armstrong

When It Rains

I remember

That there is so much happening
beyond the so much

that isn’t.
They are making a song

into a feature film,
but I am whistling,

making that same song
into my breath.

They ready the Cineplex
for the theatrical release of Rain.

I, too, stand ready
for some sort of release,

some sort of adaptation.
Though I am a rather large man,

the universe will stroke my hair
and call me Little Flower.

 

The Bedside Book of Breath

Some call it wiggle room,
but she says breath,
well actually, breathing,

our lungs constantly taking

soft bites of atmosphere.
Little bits of the past

steer into our mouths
to exit little bits
of the future.

She resolves to be flexible
and mark a fresher start:

The music like a cool breeze

moves from city to city
never forgetting

the settings and stops,
the words and changes.

It’s true that the radio makes
a small room bigger,
but so does she:

My lungs measure the world
with neither immediate
nor long-term plans.

 

Midsummer XXVIII

Short of snapping under the weight
Of signs and symbols
I must confess

To believing in convergence
Not necessarily

Of planets / cats / fingers
Four-leaf clovers

Lavish paintings / street
Dancers / lemon juice
And Absolute

It’s warm out / you linger

At the fence in a torn tuxedo
Dress shirt / cutoff jeans

You signal a new era / error
A green collage of lips

Love’s chance splicing
Of youth / fashion / classic
Science fiction

Later we might walk through streets both moonlit
And canopied by cloud

Each thought expressed aloud

Each street

Each season.

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