YEAR OF THE SEA MONKEY CLXXIII

Glen Armstrong

PROCESS

00:00 / 01:02

My sweetheart is the worst
at admitting she’s the best,
so we usually avoid


the rankings altogether.
She is a birdsong,
a melody warmed by meat


and feathers that hovers
above my head.
I am middle C.


It seems like the whole world
is busy whacking weeds
or wishing they had weeds


to whack.
They’re either denying
that the black sedan


has access to their cul-de-sacs
or sitting in its passenger seat
fiddling with its radio.


My sweetheart isn’t a bird
but that which passes through
a bird, a poem, a neighborhood.

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