This is a pretty
crummy way to say finis,
when every lark
and every oak
have passed away,
with all the rest
of our tired clichés:
The ocean
and its ships.
The mountains
and their snow.
The poems
becoming worse
than even this—
when the final
bard on earth
hasn’t a rhyme
to go with the times—
waits only for the red
and swell of Sol,
a sonnet on the sun
that swallows every-
thing in sight:
my pen,
this book,
the love I vowed
would be forevermore,
blinded by the flash
and burn of light, in the blink
before the dark
in which they’re one,
when promises are
pitched into the void,
that we’ve named it
Space
for a reason,
and did you honestly
expect a happy ending?
What if I shared my joke
about the chimp
and flugelhorn?
What if it actually
made you laugh?
What then?
Andreas Gripp
August 20, 2024
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