Untitled

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

RF Image