The Introvert, or A Lesson in Topography

You respond to my

curtains’ close with a galling

no man is an island.

I was never a fan of Donne,

the tumult from his tolling bell

a cuckoo clock—I learned to

hate the birds because of it.

However I’ll acquiesce.

His verses are immortal—

mine are not—

as a result, I’ll become

a promontory, jutting into the

sea like a middle finger.

I’ll surround myself

with gators, piranha & electric

eels—the jolt of a wired fence;

a peninsula’s way to taunt

you are not welcome—

but should an extravert

leap the moat, my scorpions

serve as sentries,

their sting of a billion bees.

Maybe I’ll gnaw my tail

like a captive rat,

take a hacksaw

to my arm that’s wedged

in rock—like Franco in that

flick that gave me willies—

drift to the misanthropes,

the ones who’ve bent the rules,

an archipelago on

the vista, where visitors

are eschewed,

nod hello to our fellow

reticents if we must,

the calm of a single

palm in gritty sand, barbed just

like a hawthorn,

the gift of an

ocean trench, enraged as

Mauna Kea, spewing forth its

magma to keep its fish &

bards at bay.

Andreas Gripp

September 17, 2026

photograph: Susanrm8