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Born on a Friday in March

by James Robert Rudolph


The sky a cabal of clouds that day’s sky
dirty gray with conspiracy the heads
of north winds swollen cheeks and chins
that’s from excess and recent assault for
they’re a tangling ball mean drunks all
hard on the horizon

On a clipper I set sail on waters
green black and nettled waves bilgy
under a hull riding small crests peaked
in resentment to lift this boat this day
this day with spray sour from the sea
rimy and pocking the skin the auguries
witchy with warnings of mislaid planets
and bad ends for this thrusting into
a world starchy with resistance
this penetration unwanted

And yet the sails those sails white
as an angel’s tunic a champion’s pennant
at a May’s joust they dress this sky and sea
for a wedding they are handsome
and a promise so I don’t know I just don’t
what all this means as night hushes
day to slumber and maybe dreams of gulls
against silvering stars or are these stars
acrid with fury

Copyright © 2016 by James Robert Rudolph

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