Spite at the Speed of Light

Poets are the pettiest

people on the planet.

If this in fact

were not the case, the first line

would’ve read prettiest—

and the alliteration 

would joyously hold.

There’s very little joy

in poets. Except the ones

who are constantly healed.

Affirming every bird

and every flower. Their

obsession with the moon.

Luna’s just a peeled

Valencia. And rocks are hardly

romantic.

All it does is whirl

about the Earth, as though

it has nowhere else

to fawn. Solely showing its Jekyll.

The dark side Mr. Hyde.

And that’s their sign for love?

They will nurture grudges 

like no other. If you haven’t

bought their book &

promptly drooled,

they’ll pretend that yours

does not exist. Even if it’s there

in the bookshop window.

Even if it’s used to prop

the door—something on which

they’ll trip, breaking their

fragile clavicle.

Clavicle is vague. Call it the collar-

bone—then everyone can decipher

what they mean.

No one crimps a collar on their feet,

so it’s obvious where it’s

placed. Not everything must be painted

in opaque. Sense is not indebted

to their rosy hue of glass.

Maybe they should really

lighten up. Swathe a bandana

over their eyes

when they are drunk. Maybe start

by getting drunk. Stumble

out the stairs in-

to the dusk. And then they can

jot their sonnets on the stars—

that the light they thought

they felt was snuffed out long

before the Sun had wrapped us

round her little finger.

Andreas Gripp

February 3, 2026

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