Poets have missed the boat
when it comes to light.
Married to its speed
& incandescence.
Its stars & twists of time.
Its trope for love & virtue.
Yet its preeminent
trait is silence.
Decipher the stealth of Sol:
its tiptoe in the woods
of recumbent colours; shushing the
white of winter; the green
of toadless lilies—
for splashing is for show-offs—
like the bro who’s sporting Ray-Bans
in the rain, revs his Mustang Sally
so the world will hear his coming.
Forgive my divagation.
My neighbour dons bikinis in the
gleam. The grass beneath her back
have bit their tongues.
Her summer tan will brown
without a peep, like the arachnid
in my houseplant or a girl
in Charlotte’s Web,
the one who’s forgot
her lines,
as if her gape and bulging eyes can
be enough, her parents too stunned to
gasp in the awkward hell—stuck in a
spider’s silk, when even susurrations
won’t protrude from their cuspids’
den, while the spotlight’s flair to mute
is just a porker skulking off
with a goose’s egg,
miming his way to sunset
before the night has plunged &
wailed its indignation.
Andreas Gripp
August 8, 2026
photograph: shutterstock
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