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PA U L B A K E R N E W M A N Tilghman Point The blue-grey sound, the darker harder grey of sea, the low faint murmur like a roll of instants startled to quick muster by a drum and live oaks sprung from earthworks manned once by twenty rusty muskets and a gun. The peaceful summers have acquired a certain moral sanctity through the ignorant vision of cold reeds, conclusions or opinions reached through rumor, nothing more, discussions of salt wind and sun, reports of talkative leaves and ill-humored squabbling terns. We climb these distances within ourselves. The bare landscape of the marsh and tree-lined shore creeping between the bitter alternatives of sea and land, helps hazy predictions of the sun fulfill their heat by noon, the grey-green grass, the static air, the gnat-clouds toiling like a space of time through consciousness until the chalk-white boats command the skyline for a moment, lost in the mesh and toiling to be still. The Late 1950s and the 1960s ❚ 11 ...

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