Elements, or Just Another Sidereal Sunday

4 is a fabulous number.

Of Beatles and of Fire—

Earth & Air & Water.

The seasons; the directions

of the wind; the wheels of your

Saturn Vue, rusting in the rubbish

now that you’ve set your sight

on stars.

Perspectives. Everything

is different

come degrees. Tip your

painting over 45,

see what you failed to

breaths before.

How the spectral will

lean as we spin & never feel it.

There is Axis and there is Axis.

I’m not speaking

of trifectas: German,

Japanese; a sprinkle of

Italian on the side.

Timmy wants to go

to outer space. Is the

Earth in outer space?

Roger that. Then he’s

already there &

doesn’t know it.

We spend a third of

our years asleep, say

a day is 24 hours.

But it’s 23 hours, 56

minutes, 4.09 seconds.

What happens to

what is left? The length of a

pop song perhaps—

The Bangles’ Eternal Flame,

that was snuffed in a fleeting

instant—perched at the top

of a chart, whirling at the poles,

spying what’s below;

then ciphering how far

away you can possibly get

at the speed of light,

the sluggishness

of sound.

Andreas Gripp

November 11, 2025

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