The Moon
glen armstrong
She was looking toward where.
She would be.
A year from now.
She was trying to hate.
The moon.
As much as a raccoon on a rooftop.
Loves the moon.
Without understanding.
Love or its own appetite.
For light and trash.
The sun comes in like Alice.
The Goon.
Breaking night’s strike.
Against the day and its impersonal.
Implementation of routine.
I saw her this morning.
Drinking coffee under an unframed canvas.
Where waves of green and orange.
Tried but failed to hate each other.
And the crossbeams they’d become.
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