Apophenia, or The Champion, or Driving in the Fog at Break of Day

Bad things come in threes

has been debunked. A deuce 

will clearly suffice—for

maleficence

to unleash its ruination:

the left/right

dénouement—

to the goblet of

a boxer’s chin; the fentanyl

which will follow—

gulped with Whitley’s gin.

The discarding of the

gloves that botched the job.

We thought that two

had spoke of balance—

the drop of

the other shoe; a seesaw’s

down & up;  for better and—

the nuthatch on the bough,

tearing itself asunder,

each wing off to flee

their separate ways,

like us in the very second

that our Jetta overturns—

two pairs of eyes

agape; surveilling an

ancient marvel in the mist.

Andreas Gripp

September 28, 2026

photograph: Mirko (Nordic Scott)