The melody is uneven.
It wins me over like a crooked smile.
To start to discuss the style.
I would need three years.
In a cell to read and ponder.
I am tired tonight.
My insides and outsides get mixed up.
The cello arrives like a wind.
That the news at six.
Never predicted.

The otherworldly manifests.
By candlelight.
I bite my nails and wash my feet.
I settle into that sweet spot.
Between exhaustion and sleep.
To hear the train miles away.
Dividing the night.
Like a blunt knife.
And letting its g major sixth.
Chord unstack.


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 NorthwestConduit and Cloudbank.