Pantomime Horse + Go Down to the Secluded Garden + Light Long Gone

Pantomime horse

The sunset gives each cloud
a pink belly

beyond the soft-serve
ice cream stand.

Old Mr. Davis takes a picture
but misses

his granddaughter’s perfect smirk,
the roll of her eyes

as she extends a cone
with sprinkles

toward the horse’s permanent grin.
The truly beautiful is strange,

unexpected, rarely here
long enough to be captured.

As for the synchronized bodies
bringing the horse

to life, they are lovers.
They take turns selecting

the tune and leading the dance.
They take turns leading

each other through the comedic
beast’s dark body.

Go Down to the Secluded Garden

Let the daisies decide.
Pretend that you are

the wind,
that you don’t believe
in God. 

Crying is useless.

Go down to the smokehouse.
Sample the catfish.

Use your mouth.

Pretend you are
the fire,

so few know.
Preserve and temper.
Leave the faces 

to their amazement.
Let the question marks

bloom.

Light Long Gone

The inscription should be sincere but cryptic, as lovely as a rare bird, designed to lift spirits rather than change behavior. Keep it brief. No one wants to read someone else's life story; we are all too busy with plans to write (or schemes to avoid) our own.

And there I was, enrolled in a painting class with the other township elders, who mostly viewed picture making as tribute, as memory, as seeing again what the camera saw, as wading in degrees of light long gone.

The bird is a decorative element that lays eggs and dies. Though lovely in the margins, we avoid its broken body under the picture window. This seems clear enough but is not. Sometimes an unnatural green tint saves lives. There are so many red circles telling their stories all at once.

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Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His latest book is Night School: Selected Early Poems.