There are no small languages
Only small words.
Birds can be any size
As were the dinosaurs who bequeathed
Them their fidgety DNA.
Abbreviation is to bereavement
As augmentation is to breath mint.
There’s a hint of your perfume in the room
And hints are small by definition.
But if you see me again
We’ll have something
Upon which to build.
Or to hold up to a single open eye
Like a telescope.
The sailor in the crow’s nest
Hopes to see land
Upon which to found the cranberry
While his captain dreams his empirical dreams
Of a million different juices.
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.