Photograph
Even the black is blue. 
Even the cargo ship, a shrimp or lobster boat 
or bigger, foreign to me, black-blue
 
against the fog and cerulean water. 
And the boys and girls running in the water:
bruise-glowed, five-fingered outlines paused
 
like bent stars, kicking at the ice-blue
froth of water, crouching for a blue-striped
beachball. It’s that line in the back, 
 
above the water and below the fog 
that draws my eye—only because 
the rest of the picture is so blue does this low air
 
appear white. A hollow-lostness white,
a pull to something distant, let’s say.
Truly it is blue, as wet and deep-evening
 
as the ocean, the sand, the steamer, the beachball,
or the boys or the girls or the shine of the picture 
glossing all their faces to blue. 
 
Only my want for contrast invents it white—
as when given so much of one good thing
my eye searches for the lack.
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