Untitled (On Blue, III)

I can always picture
with the utmost clarity
and purpose
the storm swells of the spit,
where the river’s mouth is opened
by a fatal dagger of sand,
the darkest of blues,
rhythmic, beating,
soft,
instantly piercing my heart,
and while my pen may skip
across the page,
while my closeness may sometimes be
swallowed
by a vast abyss that can only be bridged
with great trepidation and care,
while my love, in perpetuity, is
angelic,
but not divine,
—but will always alter, will always grow, will always bring change to its target
I at least have
this
to my credit.