We’ve been locked
in an iterant
eddy, a satellite
that’s fused
into its rhythm,
a record that
wheels forever,
despite the ending of its
grooves, a needle’s vexing
muffle
against the label ;
both of us
unwilling
to finally rise, lift the stylus
from its place ; or
you the ball, I the chain,
a link like
monkeys-in-a-
barrel, awaiting the inevitable
break-of-arms,
when the one
who is falling
and the one who has felled
spy the ground that’s
far below, a thud heard
round the world, a ring
of smoke that swells
as from a coyote
dropped over a
crag , failing to figure
roadrunner
was never a
meal
but that evasive
clasp of love,
so aphonic
in its snare, so obsessive
in regret
it’s unable to finally
die—
despite Acme’s
incessant promise
this is it.
Andreas Gripp
February 5, 2025
RF Image
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