This poem is taken from PN Review 167, Volume 32 Number 3, January - February 2006.
The Saint of Tusker RockI
I served the surf.
I suffered it.
A saviour, I thought,
a form in the foam,
some message that was
mine and meant for me.
What arrived was a ship
whose men spoke like gulls,
not bothered about gods, only the eel
they saw in my smokery,
a conger black and
gold and grinning on its
gallows. Strong meat,
but in their firelight we were
souls together sharing
a cup, safe for a night
and sure, at least, of that.
...
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