Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Hand strung memories, this:
you running over lake spit palmistry
as a ball peen beak drills down
toward the palmate star burst
a hand bone in the cross hairs of judgement
and you
with meagre charity:
ricket-boned testimonial
a half-smoked joint left in the blind.

The sandhill crane, ready for flight now
legs secure as croquet mallets
blinks past the buzz of polaroid film
the bane of its majestic instincts
flat eye anger.

This is not our sanctuary.
The birds push you toward boundaries
those eyes raw as new pennies
hot rolled beneath caboose wheels
still waiting for something, somewhere
to scent this overcast day
seed these words, monkey puzzle sharp.

Tammy Armstrong can fly.