We sat at the beach together
but I didn’t write a thing.
I looked to the horizon
and its meeting of sky and sea
and the cerulean they both shared
at the point where we see
the world is round indeed.
You wrote of sandpipers
on the strand and the seagulls
encircling the trawler
traversing the harbour,
and I left you the metaphors
to find while I was lost in a reverie
that had Magellan meeting
Eratosthenes
on the edge of a precipice,
saying yes, it’s all an illusion,
this vortex of birds and their fish,
this looping of ships and our poems.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp
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