ABSTRACT
Today, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, lies an island called Potter’s Field. There, on fresh winds, the foul blood of New York City is
transported. For that acre of blood affords the only columbarium for the ashes of the unclaimed, derelict dead of the city-for unidentified murdered bodies, for paupers, and now, for the new category of destitution: those who die of AIDS in the triage wards of the city hospitals.
