Bad things come in threes
has been debunked. A deuce
will clearly suffice—for
maleficence
to unleash its ruination:
the left/right
dénouement—
to the goblet of
a boxer’s chin; the fentanyl
which will follow—
gulped with Whitley’s gin.
The discarding of the
gloves that botched the job.
We thought that two
had spoke of balance—
the drop of
the other shoe; a seesaw’s
down & up; for better and—
the nuthatch on the bough,
tearing itself asunder,
each wing off to flee
their separate ways,
like us in the very second
that our Jetta overturns—
two pairs of eyes
agape; surveilling an
ancient marvel in the mist.
Andreas Gripp
September 28, 2026
photograph: Mirko (Nordic Scott)
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