I have to say
I love you
in 40 lines
or less.
Space between
the stanzas
count as a line.
This is now my
10th—11th—
fuck I am in trouble.
I have no room to spare
for the schmaltzy
iridescence of your eyes,
for the syrup
of your touch and your taste,
to reminisce
about our very first time,
sounding like a
bumbling incarnation
of cliché.
If I was smart, / I would have written / everything / like this. / And to hell
with the breaks of strophes.
But though I’m clearly
not too bright, dim-
witted in fact, I really am in love,
with you, and to prove it
I will disqualify
myself
from this vexing
competition,
which offers nothing but
remittance, publication,
some purported, to-be-fading
prestige;
sacrifice the lauds
I may have won,
some certificate
in my bedroom—
that supposedly
takes your place
and keeps me warm.
Andreas Gripp
November 19, 2024
RF Image
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