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

Juice industry.

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.