On the Fall of William James

I’ve always

overblown

my heart’s confessions,

what I’d do for you,

screaming from the

mountains

every minstrel

boasts they’d climb,

bunions and the bite

of frost be damned,

not staying within

the white lines of

my lane—pragmatic,

trѐs réaliste,

the matter-of-fact

approach

that douses fire,

having never

sailed the path

of jumbo jets,

the ears of

elephants,

some tri-head, King

Ghidorah.

But maybe that’s

my problem—no one

wants the lies

they want the fears,

of what can

surely happen off the

ground,

though there is no

grand seduction

with the plain

of John or Jane.

Still, overshooting

landings

is much better than

falling short, like some

bardic Evel

Knievel,

beyond the stodgy bounds

of play-it-safe,

like the frog

that leaps the

lilies of the pond,

every splunk

unseen, only

spreading ripples

from where it’s been,

our eyes too slow

to catch its mid-air

flight, its reckless

show of love.

Andreas Gripp

April 13, 2025

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