The Stroke

Maybe a shot of luck—

the deflecting of fired

lead.

Or a golfer's

placid putt

into a cup; the baseball

which is launched

into the air,

handled by bleacher

creatures, bathed in Yankee

beer.

A brushing of the ego.

Acquiescence of you are right.

A caress with caring hands;

the beginnings of

consummation.

A comely swirling

from a nib & fountain

ink, scribing love

in all its facets.

Quiescent paddles

along the river

in canoes, or frenzied in

the race of

dragon boats,

passing the swimmer

who took a plunge

into its murk;

lying on his back,

bedevilled by the sun;

and the stab within

my temple, sudden slur

of speech; the numbness in my

arm and icy fingers,

which moments

ago had pet our purring

cat, who has no idea

why I’m prostrate on

the floor, awaiting an angel’s 

feathered fondle,

her wings to

lift me up beyond the

ceiling, where everything is

gentle, soothing,

the heavens like the

sea and she a ship,

convex in her sails—

or down on through

the tiles, the sneer

of a demon

dragging me by the

feet, like the pull

from a cedar galley,

its many oarsmen

lashed

into rapidity, no other

touch but this

till the journey's done.

Andreas Gripp

June 1, 2025

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