Honest Pirate

eyes peeled past horizons
primed to plunder utter space

man, set to pluck from its gleaming sea
whatever sails by, to pillage each wave,
to suck even the mists of vapor that fly
from the curl of the first crest,
that fly from the richest curl of every crest,
that fly free from the last curl of the last crest
before it rolls and tumbles rough
into a single trough

and when the wind dies and the sea’s still,
smooth as a baby’s cheeks or a shaven face,
when clouds sail quietly overhead like fleece,
that picaroon will have grabbed his loot
self-satisfied he did not cheat 
to gain its grace

Jim Culleny
June 4, 2009


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