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I Sincerely Want To Hear From You; Favorite Constellation by Glen Armstrong

I Sincerely Want to Hear from You


And I remember your painting of cows with blue

shadows well ­­- the copy of Dirk Wears White Socks

you hid and played while your mom was at work.

So much of life is sugary nonsense, but you

always leaned into it with style and gravitas.

There was no guessing ­­­- no cheap red or blue

crap sprayed into your hair. I think of you often

as I parallel park, as I lace up my boots

or eat a perfectly grilled cheese sandwich.


The cantaloup is painfully ripe and lightly salted.

One bite will drive me insane, as would hearing

from you now. The sky is grey. Neither a coat

or jacket feels quite right for walking around,

and there's nothing much left to walk to,

no record stores, no hollow trees to check

for treasure or bugs, but, ah, to walk to what's no

longer there with you . . . The same blue shadows

fall from abandoned cars. They fall on sidewalks

and obscure my feet.

Favorite Constellations


The tide is low, and footprints fail to accumulate for now. Nothing overlaps, the sky spread out like a fitted sheet stretched to some sort of unlikely win by newlyweds. They are cute, and they feel as if they will smooth any domestic challenge that comes between them – for now.


This is a destination, hence, not the only starting place. Some come from Michigan, where I hear militia groups police car shows. Some come from Uttar Pradesh, where I hear popcorn venders know a thing or two about transcendental meditation.


Most of the vacationers have returned. It is well past Labor Day, so only convalescing astronauts and poets remain. Each looks to the sky, though no one particularly cares what happens after dark this time of year. They attempt to identify their favorite constellations as purple clouds unfold and the winds tests their commitment.




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