For years it’s been
a ritual, the unlading
of your cup, the flinging
to the ground around
your shoes—brittle,
cracked along the toes
like an auto with its wind-
shield in absentia,
the one through which he
flit like a wren
from a cannon, sprawled
upon the hood with
broken glass. The
pulsing before the dark.
When every bird is
tucked in gnarly trees.
It’s been about ninety
months
since you’ve been touched.
With consent.
Even the pillbugs
know the difference.
You can see it how they
curl upon your nudge,
when love has been up-
ended at the dusk,
when the snails
have called it a
day, receding
in their spirals
like a phallus
after the deed,
by that peeling , forlorn
bench on which you’re
slumped, a pigeon
feeding you
with every dreg &
crumb of seed.
Andreas Gripp
February 20, 2025
RF Image
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