Intercessions

Fog is a poor

man’s cloud. Stumbling

in the fall from

which we sprung.

I speak of the impoverished,

not the mist that shrouds

their steps.

The pond is the

poor man’s ocean.

Watch him skipping

stones along its rim.

Triune in their bounce.

Rocks are a poor

man’s mountain. Bits of a

broken soul.

Why the laurels for

the summit? The climbing up 

applauded? No one takes

the time to view descent, 

to measure

beneath the base.

None who plant a pennant

at its feet.

We seldom speak in

meters for the damned.

The child at the

bottom of the well.

His every gaze aloft as

if to God.

Drenched inside his

ears by water’s lift.

We only bow our heads

to shut our eyes; teach

that prayer ascends

just like the fumes from

every lorry. Never burrows

as a mole

beneath our steps—

content in ever-blindness.

Pick it quickly, now.

The sense to see

or hear. Music

lost in one. Her face

when all is veiled.

Or select the taste of

touch. We submerge our

dead in dirt—say they’re off

to some Valhalla

in the sun.

To shovel is to worship.

Feel it for yourself in

loamy soil. There’s a reason

every swine will

lurch in mud. Toss to them

your pearls. Or place

them back in oysters

for safe-keeping. If the ocean’s

scaled in fathoms, why should

all the Numen

live in skies, spurn

their own Messiahs,

take away our gills?

Choking like a fish

that drinks the air.

Andreas Gripp

March 7, 2026

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