Everything I do
is one and done.
No one does a jig-
saw more than once.
Same with word-
search & sudoku.
And there’s none to
care for the term
in 9 across—
once the boxes
have been filled.
I came across
my colouring book
from the middle of
second-grade. A rhinoceros
in orange. A zebra in
blue & red.
There wasn’t a way
to do them all again,
much like love &
hate.
I’ve never had
a goldfish
in my life. Not because
they never live up to
the colour
they falsely boast,
but the fact
they’re belly-up
before you know it—
sometimes prior
to being named.
There’s a flower
in my book on Asian
Travel, circa 1988.
As far as utility
goes, it’s as useless
as a second nose.
The book, that is.
Absent of tech &
hotspots. No QR
codes in sight. But every so
often, I inhale the
carnation she gave me
on the night of the senior
prom. There’s no scent left,
of course. Just a page-
dried recollection
that we had the
time of our lives.
Had joked of
going to Sendai,
climb some temple steps
until we’re out of
voice and breath,
hear a Roshi
tell us to stop
a single stair
before the top, breathe
the floral air of
almost-done,
know that nothing really
lasts more than a day,
this transient turn of
axis, the pealing of
hearts & bells.
Andreas Gripp
February 5, 2025
RF Image
Comentarios