I asked if you’d
come up with a
name for the poem
you’ve been writing
and you answered not yet,
annoyed by my
response: great title,
succinct and
to-the-point,
which was super-
fluous, I know,
as well as most
unfunny,
which reminded
me of the moment
REM were Out of Time,
to conjure the name
of their new LP,
that Warner
unwittingly broke
the creative block,
that I too
have seen the crag
of muted stones,
the words that failed to
topple
off my tongue’s
precipice,
like the night
I was unable to
speak, anything
of love, if I loved
you, if it thrust into
my side like a lance,
nailed my wooden
heart upon a stake,
that in the agony
that is silence,
all I could finally
manage: not now,
I’m sorry, not yet.
Andreas Gripp
November 3, 2030
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