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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


which was super-

fluous, I know,

as well as most


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


off my tongue’s


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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