by Glen Armstrong

The soul is a yipping dog.
It wants to go out so I look for its leash.
It pulls me along as it devours
the invisible treats breath makes available.

It craves the company of other souls,
effluvial and easily mounted,
stripped of each wing but full of helium,
bouncing between worlds.

The soul is an early favorite
and an also ran.
It is too many animals at once
to be anything at all.

Last night the house got so quiet;
I began to have doubts.

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. He has three current books of poems: Invisible Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit, and The Cream City Review.