Immortalitis

Here, in the conduits of

our progeny. The house that’s

raised in brick.

An Oscar on a mantel or a canvas

in the Louvre. A published

book of scribbles. A pulse in

the pith of psalm.

It’s not my poem that

hearkens love—it’s the blossom

on its page along the binding.

Its loss of scent

to must. Its oblation of the sun

for the pall of dust. Compressed

as though there’s more

it could have bled. Forfeiting

every drone of

apidae, the imbibing of

its nectar—for a quell

like the foot of a grave

when soil’s tossed.

My friend in second

grade wrote Dave was here.

Using the teacher’s

indelible pen. As if an etch in his

mother’s granite.

If you’d asked him at

the time it was enough.

Andreas Gripp

September 22, 2026

photograph: Andreas Gripp