Bliss

My window is

an extra eye, one that tells

my brain it isn’t raining,

how gusty the gales

might be, that the city

has sent its crew

to furrow the street,

that a dog is doing

its business in the

hedge my neighbour

planted—to keep

the unwanted away.

My window never blinks

although it can—

with a placid

tug-on-blinds.

And should grit

get stuck on its

pupil, a splash & swipe 

from a Jiffy Wipe

will surely put an

end to that.

But this is in truth is a poem

about the things

we choose to discern.

I could have

mentioned the woman

on the corner

after dusk; the man

who’s a stone’s throw

away—clothed in leather-

black; vendors of the

commodities

we’d rather not distinguish—

blinds because our vision

is blissfully

veiled. The ignorance we are

gifted with the yank

of a nylon cord, as if a 

parachute floating you

tenderly to the ground,

its blanketing of

your head & crumpled

frame, shrouding the sound

around you, telling you in its

murmur that you’re safe.  

Andreas Gripp

November 27, 2025

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