The Baby, Albeit…

Maybe I mirror

you, in ways of

unawares, as your

mobile carousels

above your head,

a monitor

that ensures

you’re sleeping soundly,

a roll from shielded

eyeballs—

hinting of a dream,

though you’re more

than just phantasmic,

some fluid, chimeric

guest, absent of

speech and belief,

these faintest of

gurgles unfurling,

from a body

that knows not

its name,

under lull

of clement light,

cerulean ceiling—

this elusive, crooked sky.

Andreas Gripp

RF Image