The Magus

 

They say the hand is

quicker

than the eye. Everything

is, really. Two turtles

playing catch-up

with a squirrel—seeing its

bounding appendage in

ellipse. If rats had fluffy

tails, we’d all be stuffing

walls with provolone.

 

I caught your beauty in a

mirror—my sight

was somewhat slower

than my tongue.

I said I would have

loved you

had my pupils honed in

sooner—some phantom

afternoon in Jacob

Park.

 

Years are much too long to

house regret. It’s why the tortoise

drags its feet. The insufferable

weight of shells—every thought a

ballast. My mother

trudged the school

like Quasimodo. Blame the

burden, not the spine.

 

Ears will leave our eyes

consuming dust. Your father

watched The Preakness

for the sound. A gallop’s

blur of triumph

by a nose.

 

I’ve heard a scent

births reminiscence. Swifter

than the spotting of an elm.

One that bears

initials, the scars from a

hurried touch. Behold its

mourning trunk—as the Spring

betrays its sorrow

in the guise of quenching

thirst.

 

Our shadows only

move beneath the light.

It’s said that nothing’s

quicker—at three hundred

million meters every second—

half the stars it shows us, passed

away. And what is death—

if not nimble on its feet?

Averse to feel our fury

should we spy our sluggish

faces in its glass.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

March 24, 2026