hayden armos

at the party

at the party, i am a caged animal 
the night licking the window with its black tongue 
yes, i am alone 
we are all alone 
dear passengers on planes 
dear angels, look down 
see our performance of closeness 
this skin to skin 
i sing, and it is all wrong 
what i thought was love 
the memory of a dream of being weightless 
a bouquet of colorful balloons 
my wet nose against the bright sky

beautiful world

someone is always dying and it's sunrise and
i scramble up a hill coated in layers and
layers of March. a hooded green wood speckled
with columbine and wallflower. it looks like
how velvet feels. yes, and i wish i had run
a hundred miles or more to get here. like i am
Pheidippides returning to Athens, where i
collapse for the last time, breathless. what kind
of victory is this? at the foot of the hill,
a glass pond, and i watch as the great blue heron
lands—first, opening its wings, leaning back,
and then extending its two willowy legs
to meet the water. when we move, we move
like fate. for the first time, i look out my window
and see the crosscut of power lines. i really see
each line—how it reaches and twists and
tethers to something bigger than itself.
you see a community. well, i talk about grief
and grief happens. i stop at a gas station for
directions, leave with a bag of Sour Patch Kids,
a toothache. do you want me to pity you?
no, sorry. i wanted to apologize. i’m just
realizing the problem with radical optimism is
forgetting. so take out your AirPods and listen.
i listen. it is almost dusk and the sound of people
playing tennis reminds me of something.