Visiting the Office of What’s Left
I was here...once before, I remember the little man, broken, in the Adriatic station, stingy rain and crests of oil- filled brown waves breaking. Yes, the beach, trashed with Slavic syringes and Turkish condoms, so much the police ran out and sang: No one swim. I could claim your body since I was your brother as I suppose I’m still next of kin (though I imagine you now have other types of kin). We were told we could burn the body for ease of shipping, or we could grease the minor palms of invisible officials, we had options, we had many ways to make grief more insane and bitter in the mouth.