Artlessly rhetorical, Norway’s hare runs south.
We must admire this morning’s glitterings.
Round and round and round at the same height,
a wretched flag tried and tried to confirm it,
like a semaphore, the poorest postcard of itself.
I want to tell you half is enough.
A senseless order floats down to
the weightless mangrove island.
The gull inquired, “Where is the music
coming from?” I can tell what I saw next:
extraordinary geraniums. I stared and stared.
I somehow never thought of radios,
Americans, or something. Something, something,
something much better than real sea
or sand or cloud. Buy yourself an ice cream
on the steps of the Public Library.
(Andrew Shields, #111Words, a cento with lines by Elizabeth Bishop, 13 December 2025)