The Sensei

When you’re a

poet, you never know

which strophe will be your last.

It could’ve been this—

had that stroke I’ve

always dreaded

slapped me silly.

They say you slur

your final words

when it has hit you:

see shells shesells up

by the shesore.

I practice it again &

again. Failing to

pivot my cheek.

Your body dies a minute

before your brain. What to think

those final sixty

seconds—and how do you

tabulate time? By the scansion

of the lines?

No one’s ever scribed

a true haiku. That

much I know. If I had

an instant left, I wouldn’t

say a peep about a

frog. Seriously—

you’re gonna squander

that waning moment

on some leap among the lilies?

Describe its flunking plop?

Then you wonder why

they never speak of Bashō

anymore. Exhaling his

closing breath, carbon

more important than a

tercet. The ripple on

the pond

is the pond.

My child

soaks her feet

among the tadpoles.

Doesn’t wince in

mud & slime.

Sees a wart as

as a bulge of beauty.

She has nothing

to unearth.

Andreas Gripp

July 5, 2026

Photo: Instants / Getty Images