The Vice

The planet was his trope:

A forest fire

happens when

the Earth quaffs

cigarettes. We’ve birthed

incessant stress. Quakes are

but the spasm

of withdrawal.

Grandpa puffed on

Camels by the carton.

I pondered where

their second hump had gone.

The tar washed down with

vodka like the plume of

sawed-off logs. Focus on the

flume—the forlorn polar

bear, its chill upon a

berg that’s gone afloat—cut

off from the others—

and you wonder why it drinks.

His daughter snorted coke

because it’s white. A snow

that wouldn’t thaw

along her desk. Inhaling

endless winter. The solstice

never fled—

deflowered and benumbed.

If the fog is merely

a nimbus

come to visit, what dependence

shall we proffer

when the sun begins to strike

its heady match? The brume

ablaze too soon—before we’ve

solved its riddle—a saint

above a pyre

wet as dew, a queer

accelerant—why flesh is so

exorbitantly

consumed,

exalted once its wisps

ascend the sky

like squandered prayer.

Forgive me. The pellucid

became opaque.

A veil must not

lay bare her many secrets.

Andreas Gripp

February 20, 2026

RF Photo