The equator cuts the circadiem in two,
cleaves it like a fruit.
The sun rises at seven and sets at seven,
and a boy’s running to the shoreline of dawn
with a satchel on his back
while the ocean’s still swathed in mist
and seeming weightless
and only the waves’ boom betrays the water’s weight
on this shore the last Portuguese slave ship left
for Brazil in 1885, as the book
written in the conqueror’s language tells.