SabbathEarly Sunday morning, there on the Bulwark of Fort Sumter, where everything turned bloody; I stare out to sea and the mist blows a ghost ship towards me. It is all quite normal the way I weep in the moment of knowing. It is the Amistad, with Joseph Cinque at the helm, calmly surveying the folds of the sea, the bloated gulls And a song turns in my head, edging my teeth with sorrow; the salt of long-gone days, the tears. (Midland,p.74)
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