Undulation

I don’t note an ocean in the

seashell that I’m pressing to my ear

but a puddle.

It’s clear but laced with silt.

The streetlamp will be rippling

in its sheen. Some creeping sort of

bugs will flit within, as though a

stagnant pond. If I were nano-

scopic, I’d coast along its arc

in a catamaran.

A person has been running

for their life—

the shell, discernibly

perturbed—

squirming in my hand

as if a baby armadillo. In 3.14

seconds, a shoe will

splash this entire shallow world

upon the grass, the thirst of

shrivelled roots,

eerie like the echo of applause,

the kind you’ll hear once

every patron’s fled, the sconces

raped of light.

Andreas Gripp

January 14, 2026

RF Photo