A Portuguese fishing boat, blue, the wash rolls up the Atlantic a little.
A blue speck far out, but still I’m there, the six aboard don’t notice we’re seven.
I saw such a boat being built, it lay like a big lute without strings
in Poor Valley, the village where they wash and wash in fury, patience, melancholy.
The shore black with people, some meeting breaking up, the loudspeakers being carried away.
Soldiers led the speaker’s Mercedes through the crush, words drummed on its metal sides.