Nothing’s quite as dull as
watching continental drift.
Its half-an-inch
per solstice.
Helios will burst in
nova before Seattle’s
in Japan.
Forget the thirsty walls
imbibing Behr at a slothy
pace. And dismiss
the sprouting grass—
the futility of
its stretch to brush
the sky.
Of course, you could coax
yourself to yawn with
a looking glass, observe your
growth of brows. But I’m unable
to do the nails—nibbled to their
lunula to calm my nerves.
And if you ask me, they’re more like
sinking suns than rising moons.
I loathe the smarmy
scientist who says our star is
fucking white. That its gold is merely
firmament’s grand illusion. Fantastic.
Every poem on Earth
must now succumb to
alteration. So sit there with your
Shakespeare on the table. Tell Donne
to wait his turn. What else is there
to do? His fingers on the
wood like a galloping
horse. Hemmed in by
the fence your grandpa
made. It’s either that
or hit the bottle.
Frankly I’d take the
bottle. Soak in
every drop until
my beard has reached the door.
Plenty of time for
the poem that I will shove into
its throat. Cast it in the ocean,
plodding to some shoreline
forever a teensy breath ahead.
Andreas Gripp
March 18, 2026
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