Fathoms

Beneath a sky clear as glass
And the crack of the rope
Is it salt in our eyes
From the sea’s surging foam,
Or verdicts left wasting
On wood languished through?
If your fingers slip from mine
By the wet of the spray
That you alone choose that
Which would carry you away
Then claim not it unyielded chance
That upon you did prey
But confess her unleashed secrets
In effusions of saltwater
And profess all those aspirations
Buried beneath all that might save us

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