The sun has gone on
strike. Luna will not cross
the picket line. The stars
have birthed a wildcat
constellation. Blue &
white no longer
waltz aloft.
The kites are full of
soot. Verdancy
is pewter never
scoured. Even the fish are
foul. Everything is fume.
The runner on third
is home. Dug into
her basement with
the fetid. The clematis
has been climbing
in reverse, slumming
with the moles &
our decay.
Someday in the stratum,
they’ll wonder what we
were. The reasons why we
smoked the land
which fed us. The blur of
dawn & dusk. Choking
every warbler that could
simply soar no higher.
Why stand with stretching
fingers to this vault
of amber-ash? Who do you think
is there, eager to pull you
up into Valhalla, teach
you how to breathe
without the air?
Andreas Gripp
July 17, 2026
photo: shutterstock
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