The temperature in our apartment
is always moderate,
20 Celsius, or as our friends in
San Francisco call it, 68,
never too frigid,
too torrid, as pleasant as its people
who birthed a twentieth-
century love of gay and poetry,
where Ginsberg howled
and Ferlinghetti kept the city
lights plugged in,
grateful for their dead, their ’67
a narrow notch
before some elusive ideal,
one that ever-hovers
within our reach.
You say never touch
the thermostat
and I mildly acquiesce.
What we call warmth
is but the middle,
the centre of some utopia
absent of fire and of ice.
Yes, the ground there occasionally
quakes, much like our walls and
ceiling do, whenever the tenants
upstairs
argue about the bills
or break into a dance
we’ve been curious to behold.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp
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