August
Late flight
ducks wings' whack,
they hack at their track
through the clouds in the evening hidden
by the night,
the forbidden
storm on its way
to the quiet
harbor bay.
Hitting
on all cylinders,
the twin eight
light speed boat
through the waves keeps passing
low slung anglers,
their faded
hopes baited,
and in the full moon strung.
All along
the starboard,
red buoys mark the way
to throttle back,
and let the bow rise
to let concerns pass
the white water and cool spray,
her slip awakened,
gurgling in the furrowed
transient channeled wake.
Her compass guides me on a north east tack,
aided by the fresh winds textures,
the August Delaware combs my hairline fractures
and evaporates the evenings mottled textures
as the glassy water smooths
and wets,
it cools
the gilded heart attack
forboding as it soothes
the promise that she will be back.
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