An eyelash is as good as a falling star.
Neither stays put.
Cabbage moths fly back to their gardens.
I wish upon wooden matchsticks
and unlaced shoes.
Sister chooses her words carefully.
We have that in common.
A “wing” and a “prayer” might arrive
in the same barely remembered song,
but one descends, and the other ascends.
One breaks, and the other ends
up misplaced in the sky,
like small-talk or undeliverable mail.
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 current books of poems: Invisible Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit, and Cream City Review.