Mystery, or Ignoring the Optician

for now we see obscurely

through a mirror; one day

face-to-face.

—1 Corinthians 13:12

My glasses are

eternally smudged.

Where the smudges come from

isn’t the subject of this poem.

Even for me that's too mundane.

Everything I witness

has been cloaked in

puffs of fog,

the whirl of the seventh veil,

a belly like the dock in

London Town, where the Inspector

smokes his pipe, a monocle in

his vest he deigns to use;

but clarity will be crucial

to his job.

As for me, brume is atmospheric,

helps to screen the

light, keeps my pupils

from intumescence, like a cat’s

when on the prowl.

Perhaps the alley tabby

is just another Watson,

the sidekick to a pseudo-

Sherlock Holmes,

who’s never solved a

case despite his treading in the

mist—in which every act

that’s grim

is bound to happen;

a puzzle’s opacity,

where the wiping of the

crystal's overdue;

where the ghastly

& the lovely

pass each other by,

bowing as kindred spirits

in the dusk.

Andreas Gripp

December 22, 2025

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