Every time you
blink
it’s a different
story—
a character
who morphs
as winds allow,
first a gelding
in the ether
missing love ;
a spaniel
run away
while chasing sticks ;
the wood of which
transformed
into a siren
on the rocks ;
while some
will swear
they’ve seen
the face of Christ,
his mother
in immaculate
white,
or the messenger
of Allah,
sent to warn
the infidels
like me,
too caught up
with reveries
of my own :
the countries
left unseen,
our hands which
clasped
blown callously
apart ;
in that cotton
archipelago
aloft above our heads,
sailing in a breeze
of summer blue,
the shape of a ship
at port,
a pirate
chugging rum
upon its deck,
stumbling drunk
along a plank
within the seconds
of a whim,
plunging into
a sea that isn’t
there,
our deceiving
ourselves with
castles in the sky
we’re not alone.
Andreas Gripp
November 28, 2024
RF Image
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