Device.

See the hem of evening,

How, in
It
--steadily and fast,
Everything melds,

Consequently slurs.

One can hope that the ripples of the hardened land echo
The ink,

Or that waves interrupt an otherwise safe
Passage.


If not we have surely promised in act
Something that in writing we must have been presumptuous to say
We could justify.

(You know, we don't build Love for a sprightly air,
Nor even for how it will look in seventy years--though we hope.

We build
It
Based on how the moment dictates, and we're only that strong.)