Elusivity

Your love is like the

housefly I cannot

snatch. The way it

squats so still

upon the counter—feigning

it doesn’t see me as my

fingers prepare to curl inside

my hand as if a hinge;

baiting me with its leap, its darting

aviation—like it did back

when I used to use a swatter.

The Swami said discard it

and I did. None of this

helps with you.

 

They say that if you love

then let it go. This devil doesn’t

realize I would merely

prop the door—mumble

hang with the hummingbirds—

who neither hum nor dole

an opus, and yet they swipe the nectar

left for sparrows. Nothing is fair

in the air :

 

a single-sided coin

in stagnant skies. Flipped with

a wink & promise. Every tail

a head, even when it’s whirled

upon the table

in your stead, a tongue that

taunts to give it

another go—best-of-five

prevails—as if your fervour

is a laurel

laced in gold, a cup

in bloodied palms that’s

heaved aloft,

 

with phones akin to novae

in their flash, to dupe ourselves

that moments can be locked as

though in amber,

like some roach or love

we spout must last forever.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

August 4, 2026

RF Photograph