Luck That Never Came

The ocean was heavy, white ridged,
like the malachite stone charm
I kept in my jeans pocket for luck
that never came. I glimpsed that fallen foal,
contorted like the branches of a willow
weeping into charcoal clouds.
Wild-eyed and crazy as any Picasso horse,
it was curled on that outcrop of cliff,
writhing, eyes sorrowful in the wet morning,

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