i
The cityscape is
cracked and bleeding.
You hear a trumpet
in the middle of the road
rage. Panners ask you for
change. You tell them to fuck
off. After the fact, you give
a dollar to one, whisper Jesus
saves.
ii
A puddle reflects the image
of the light. When a pedestrian
stomps right through it,
the rays are eternally gone.
Your very first thought is
misanthropic, how someone can
blot out our star, and then so heedlessly.
Within seconds, a cloud conceals
what’s above you, making it
all-too-human.
iii
This bus, the sound between the
stops. The pushing in, against.
There’s not a single space to hide you,
jostled like a plaything.
You desperately need to leave,
before your destination—
a walk
so silent
it is noise.
iv
The cemetery’s serene,
like a proverbial valley
with sheep. Who is worthy
to shepherd you, to gently touch you
with a staff?
Ravens gather in a conspiracy.
You were taught that they were
hideous—their deathly, dissonant voices.
Your inner child says
they’re the most beautiful
of the birds.
Who can tell her she’s wrong?
Who can tell her she’s wrong?
Andreas Gripp
2021 (Revised August 2024)
RF Image
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