Haggling at the Pool of Siloam

You say you’d trade your

sight for a pair of wings.

Writing pair is so redundant.

Only a dolt

would barter vision for a

single pinion.

What benefit is

flight—if you can’t

make heads or tails of

nature’s visage?

Flip a coin

unto the heavens.

Accept what isn’t yours has

landed prostrate in

the dirt.

If you'd been

blind from birth, we never

would have met—

at the screening of

King of Kings.

You say it’s not

the case. The deafening of your

slouch in front-row-centre,

to absorb as much of

Galilee as you can. Every lily-

of-the-field. Sigh of

priest and beggar. My munch of

buttered popcorn

right behind you—my bag a

grating rustle

from the moment the

spotlights dim.

You add you would’ve

jerked in my direction,

rebuked me for not saving it

for the birds, then suggested

I can buy it by the bucket,

let the starlings

swoop on down at

speeds of sound.

What is worth beholding?

A lonely old bloke

on a bench? Squirrels that

can surmise his

pitch of kernels? If you’ve ever

witnessed one

you’ve viewed them all—

people, you mean. We only

love divergence

when our vision’s up &

gone; our auricles

duly commence

their double-duty—

their remittance  

twice as much.

If a breath

into my concha

isn’t love, what is?

Orbs can only roll; squint

at Sun’s resplendence—

that will mask your

world in seconds if you

look it in the face,

will cause you to rely

on touch & scent, the steps

of a promised prophet

who is plowing

through the crowd to

mud your eyes.

Andreas Gripp

February 21, 2026

RF Photo