The vaporetto between San Marco

And the glass island of Murano

Is busy with tourists June through August.

 

A mass, a mob, crossing scattered islands,

Sun stroked couples, the Germans and English

With knapsacks and maps, sweltering in sun

Vying for shade in barbed heat, arms outstretched

A reek of closed bodies and sweating sea.

 

At such a time you wouldn’t see a fall

Or hear a splash from a small soul sinking,

Legs or arms, maybe, a forsaken cry

Beneath the engines whinnering horses.

 

Across a continent a scenes replaying

How many eyes and ears are failing too?

Except to sweep these specks inside a quota-

As one more blot on Europe’s dark water.