It’s the full moon that is boring,
you orate as you set up your
reflector in the dusk.
Its vanity of look at me.
The crescent is a judging
karambit, one for the end of days;
a reaper of galactic grains.
The half-moon speaks of balance,
a cosmic yin & yan. Its meld of
frump/enchantress. The radiance.
The acne and its
aftermath of scars. You add you
speak of Luna not your face.
And then when it’s abstruse.
The shroud of
modesty. Or hiding what we
envisage to be there. A dusty,
pimply girl
inside a crater, squinting back with a
monocle. Our resplendence and
our wounds.
Andreas Gripp
September 3, 2026
photograph: Elle Sofe Sara / Mer Film
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