by Andreas Gripp
Release Date: January 6, 2009
68 pages, perfect-bound
ISBN: 978-0-9739932-6-4
$10.00 CAN/USA
Click here to order
The Lesser Light
"The Lesser Light" below,
(c) 2009 Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp
That boy
who plays alone
is a future poet,
the way he throws the ball
against the wall
betrays it best:
a bounce against the bricks
and rolling past
the other kids --
none to pick it up
for him, landing in the mud.
Look at how he cleans it:
his sleeves absorb the earth,
the water,
the melding of the two.
See its mock rotation,
still wet with residue,
its slow and soggy spin
cupped by his wobbly,
sodden hands,
giving time
for phantom people
to get off,
the ones who stay behind
to write the reason
they cannot jump.
When we stopped
at Sheppard's Farm,
you spotted
the friendless goat,
unfettered,
unfenced.
Such a darling,
bleating creature,
its milk to make
our cheese.
While we wait,
I read
of the centre-fielder
dropping the inning-ending
fly.
A tinny clang
of bell
signals sprints
in grass land-
scape.
Dear discarded
from the sheep,
our wine
is that much better
and our bread
is duly crowned.
Who would choose to blame you?
Who would choose to blame you?
Your therapist
spoke of your anger,
of its need to dissipate,
to ascend with the dust
of the street
as it is swept
before the rush of dawn,
to cloud like cauliflower,
then rain upon what's dead
and hope a seed of green
takes root,
its shoot a calm for ills,
your drinking,
your divorce.
In the days that broke
since parting,
repeating as a canyon's call,
your spouse's callous words
never left your seething side,
like that stretching piece
of chewing gum
that stuck to your favourite shoe,
from a spot on the city sidewalk
that the garbage-picker missed,
to vex poor soles
as yours
until that gooey
scrape-with-a-twig,
a residual
sound like Velcro
damning steps
and blocks to come.