The most senseless
faux pas
life ever made
was heaving itself to land.
Its sands that bore our
serpents.
Fish are never thirsty.
Fins have never felt
a crucifixion. Or hangnails
lasting weeks. The wrench
of aging backs—while
pulling up their socks.
Each one with its
holes like effervescence.
We were all better off in the
sea. No partition of the waters.
Clods with a nuclear
code. Everything was sushi.
The octopus? A spider
who changed her mind.
Floating in the deep
as if the heavens; starfish
for its suns. No more sulking
in a corner with its silk.
Twiddling its many thumbs.
Forgetting it could sew itself
some threads; pause its naked
days; like some suddenly
bashful primates—tramping to a
tailor’s for a fitting; somewhere
beyond the fruit where rivers kiss.
Andreas Gripp
March 28, 2026
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