Glen Armstrong

You are like me but with fingers
           and an appetite,

           bee stings and
           a singing voice.

You never speak of the perfect
           day or panes of glass

           or even clouds,

though you are as troubled
           by consciousness
           as I am.

Your thesis on tweety birds forever changed
           my view of their
           restorative orbit

           around the oversized,
           traumatized heads
           of dolts and rogues,

yet you fail to notice the blue sky’s return.

           You run through Time Square
           in oversized boots.

           You cry before the minor key
           tells you to.