There’s a final time for everything.
A falling off your skateboard,
a bandage to the knee and
kiss-it-better?
Van Gogh’s harkening a rooster’s crow
with his unpruned ear.
The roar of an ankylosaurus
in the ash, the choking dénouement
of Cretaceous sun.
The last sieg heil! that’s offered
in a bunker. The echo that doesn’t
boomerang to your auricles
like the year before. The last I love you to
your daughter
though you couldn’t have sensed
the man beyond the sidewalk in his coupe.
The definitive moment you called me
fucking faggot. The final first time that
I dove into the lake,
eye-to-eye with the walleye, the wonder
on their faces as I sank beneath their scales
like something severed, weighty,
a slave to gravity’s crush, surmising if they’d
ever see such an astonishing sight again.
Andreas Gripp
August 23, 2026
Ludwig Knaus, The Goodbye (1867)
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