a potential (be)heading and an attempt at a (dead)run

Grey, grey, late summer day.
Hard blow winding away up the bay.
Its back an oceans strength carried cross spits of land.
Wavering hulls of twelve and two weave dragon’s teeth and white tipped peaks.
Youthful bodies, not much greater, white knuckled and green faced, clutch shoe string sheets strung to pregnant linens, thin and stretched.
Match reduced to duel, bow breathes warm to leading stern.
Eyes strain to toes hooked, heeled right.
Two high, one low.
Upright and tight, marker meets bottom paint.
Call to tack and starboard swing.
Magnificent gust, tiller thrust,
boom away…

and bow to stern,
a shudder and snap.

Grey sky to white.
Violence, more memory than moment,
flat and muffled,
in its happening had already passed.
And now, wrapped tight in sheet and line and sail,
stock taken of fingers, toes and blessed head,
swam free of soft embrace.
Crosstree and trunk placed straight and true, a table set between three souls.
A contest’s end.
Victor smooth and quick and set to run.


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