The adage goes
the beholder
will determine
what is
glorious.
The line of
shine/penumbra
on our evening’s
ghostly orb;
how the craters
take on depth we
never notice in
the day. Everyone else
is focused on
the stop
of clotted red.
Your eyes are
never more lovely
as when they’re
fastened.
Spirited,
stirring worlds
beneath your
lids
while you are
dreaming.
I tell the tour
guide that
Rodin was
overrated. The
rock had been the master
throughout his
chiselling of The Kiss.
Just ask Camille
Claudel.
A straitjacket
in
the end her
magnum opus.
His gasp when I
leave the
group to gaze at
rusted
bathroom
fixtures.
The scrawling on
the stalls.
A daisy’s more
alluring
once it’s
plucked. What else has
the answer to love?
Then the
daughter whose limbs
are severed
after shelling, ferried
by her mother
who is scaling
newborn crags in
her chador,
brushed the hue
of blood that’s not
her own, the way
it mimics Gaugin
when in the
light.
How she wails
when they are
laid beside the
torso. An aria
that evokes
Maria Callas. If
the dead
can not have
beauty
then who can?
©2026 Andreas Gripp
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