Exsanguination

You bought a

dozen roses

for the thorns,

wrapped your palm

& fingers round their

spikes, the rivulets

of rouge—

dittoing their corolla

of the dawn—

then brought them

to her door, sharing love

is never wilted

but it wounds, bleeding

in the grim & glow of

sunfall,

that passion

and its pain are

equal measure

beat-for-beat,

there’s not the other with-

out the one,

the charge of minus/

plus,

an engine unable

to rondo if

the negative is

negated,

hoping the slap

that greets your cheek

is just a little S&M,

a shade of her

that no one’s ever known,

and when she plays

the scherzo on the

keys, imagine she is

sure to use the dark as

well as light, the bass as

well as treble, her flat then sharp

ascending to the ceiling

like a bee, to prick you to

the bone when she has ceased—

your hands so steeped with

crimson

your applause

will seize the ears of

every angel of the

dusk—the clement,

not-yet-fallen.

Andreas Gripp

June 29, 2025

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