The Problem with Nature

is that we’re duped to

trill its praise, just

beyond our tarmacs &

cement, our fists of rage

and road, the screech of

iron wheels, the digestion

of garbage trucks,

crooning that it's peaceful,

lovely,

the essence of the gods,

this calm of kindly

souls,

so entranced

with its seduction

that we fail to

note the talons

of the osprey,

its snatch of vole

like the claw

that snags the pony—

in our gaudy, cheap

arcades,

the birl of eat-

be-eaten, the bones

beneath the soil,

impotent to

see the brutality

of the leaves, there

on the forest floor,

the stretch & shove

of stems, seizing all the

sunlight of their neigbours,

and then the half-a-belly up

of discarded fish,

there along the shore,

in the clap of a gentle

lap,

seagulls shitting green

upon your head, your

insistence it’s OK,

that it’s natural and

deific—this sharing of

their warmth, kiss of

celestial wings.

Andreas Gripp

May 9, 2025

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