The love poem that I’ve scribed for you
is inside an empty bottle,
Peller Estates, 2024,
wine from an evening
that you say we touched and danced
but I know we never did;
our backs against the wall
and our feet locked side-by-side,
tapping on the floor
to the piano’s ¾ time,
quick enough
so we could have danced apart,
lagging just a bit
so we clearly could have clasped,
shuffled with my arms about your waist
and yours around my neck.
I imagine you
picturing movement,
to music only ears and toes
partook of,
our bodies parting
as if water
had wedged itself between,
the gap widening
into a gorge,
a River Atlantic of sorts,
two continents adrift
like loosened jigsaw pieces,
an ocean born, expanding,
making room for unread verse—
afloat, undisturbed,
forever encased in glass.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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