CURVE

The smell of the Evinrude

Gasoline and oil


The curve of the open wooden boat


The high prow


As his father and his father's friends


Launch it into the surf


Timing the waves to crest them


And they will return with tales


Of the ocean beyond the surf


And fish packed in ice boxes


Which will not quite explain


The beauty of the curve


Of that prow riding the curves


Of those waves, out to open sea

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