The Army Boats

The sea is army-green this evening,
and the wind scrapes across my
tongue like the bow of a violin. All the rosin
in the world would never get me
what I need. The lights of the town don't
reach me nor the sounds of the drunken,
dancing people. I'm not sure I'm still walking
on the rocks. I'm not sure I can taste my tongue.

The sun gets closer every day and the whole
world is on fire. The army boats spit fire across
the swaying waters and I say the rosary,
praying it doesn't reach me, praying it doesn't
find you. Don't you get lost in your army-green.

I can taste the sea, bitter, when I turn my
head. The foam is proud of itself. Damn the foam,
I can only be ashamed of me. The insipid
fingers that whisper across my cheeks-
the metaphor that bites my tongue, the salt
water that stings where the teeth held on,
oh, hell. I'm forgetting myself again. You
remember how I used to say the rosary
over every mistake I made? You
remind me of that every time we speak.

My tongue fails.
My tongue fails, but
you've forgiven me that before.
Every duty is a chalk
mark on my wall until you forgive me.

Do you recognize me?
Or is that the whole problem?

edit; after some thought: To anyone who might be offended at the use of swear words.. I will probably at some point be discoursing on the use of employing things like swearing in art, so if you could hold off judgement of me until then...