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Spectacle

You’ve never looked

so entrancing

I declare, and you say

my glasses

are too smudged for me

to know what beautiful

is.


Later, my naked eyes

squint

upon sight of a single

rose,

left you by an admirer,

and it’s wilting after

hours in a vase.


Maybe he’s far-

sighted, I offer as

conjecture;

perhaps the florist took

advantage

of his condition


and I date myself

by comparing him

to Mr. Magoo.


He was near-sighted, you

take me by surprise,

knowing something

about a character

clearly before your time.


You add that I’m simply

jealous I didn’t send one

off myself, and that

I need to feel superior

by knocking

the competition.


But earlier in the week,

I wanted to expedite

an arrangement

wrapped in colour,

unwilling to pay for delivery,

the outrageous

gas & taxes,

each stamen


speaking of a "love"

I hold for you,

that the ice-

cold excuse for a heart

you own

would be blind

to their off-key spectrum,

that blue should have

no business

mixed with red,

that the tips of the

petals


shrivel,


since your abode’s

so very dry,


and everything

that makes them

human,

as we in our charade

pretend to be.




Andreas Gripp

November 13, 2023


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