You say I’m
like a lion
out the gate—bursting
forth with poems,
all of them absurd.
No one’s
gonna read them
and you’re right,
there are better
things to do
within this month,
that isn’t even
certain
of its season:
Winter’s final
gnash, his claws
and roar of fury,
let me give a
chuckle
as you fall upon
the ice upon your
ass,
or the siren
which is Spring ,
her breath from
southern waves,
the snowdrops
with their ruse of
appellation, the tease of
am I here?
So I will play the
coward, bleating
like a lamb, spilling all the
ink that’s in its
bottle,
grind my stylus
on my blotter—
as out-of-date as I—
as if I plunged
down from the sky
of ’39,
on my way to skip
along to Oz,
a friend on either side,
tailing Judy Garland
and her shoes, a bloody
shade of ruby
on these deceptive
bricks of gold.
Andreas Gripp
March 1, 2025
Andreas Gripp
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