The boat had no hull. It was a wing
fired in porcelain, glass and steel
skimming the waves and our girl gone
with you to let out the mainsail. The win
was what mattered, speed and style.
The boat had no hull, just a wing
so that waves slipped past like Teflon,
your mast tall and great sail full,
skimming the waves, our girl keen
on your mark. You could not begin
to take enough care, so you took none at all.
The boat had no hull but a wing
for speed and style, no ballast or concern
for safe—just cut wake, caressed foil.
It skimmed the waves, our girl gone
over the side to rescue the rigging. No will
now, no mast, no cumbersome life vest.
The boat had nothing under its wing;
it skimmed the waves, and our girl was gone.