I’ll love you till
the poets run out of rhymes
—Johnny Mathis, The Twelfth of Never
I think it best
to leave out all the
rhymes, make it not
an ode
without abode,
that its lot
is with the slush,
those leaning, paper
pillars
every editor
abhors,
as if a Pisan
tower, the swirl
of ascending
steps,
a rooftop
where the stanzas
gaze to space,
your face
in every spiral’s
trillion spheres,
the promise of gravity,
that it’s all been sung
before,
in a lyrics’ vow to never
lose its fervor,
never discard
each thing deemed
beautiful,
limitless,
where ten digits
make endless Pi,
twenty-six letters
an infinity of
poems,
gasping
for their breath
amid the rhythms.
Andreas Gripp
January 25, 2025
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