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 the blinds.

And should some grit

get stuck

on its pupil,

a soggy

swipe

from a Jiffy Wipe

will surely put an

end to that.

But this 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 ; both

selling commodities

which we’d rather not

distinguish.

And do we call them

blinds

since they block our sight

from a glimpse

which leads to

perception?

When our vision

has been veiled

to something we simply

can’t accept—

the ignorance

we’re gifted

with the pull

of a nylon cord,

as if a

parachute

floating you tenderly

to the ground, blanketing

your head

and crumpled body,

shrouding the sound

around you,

telling you in its

murmur that you’re safe.

Andreas Gripp

November 18, 2024

RF Image