A rusty Romanian tanker, wallowing out in the azure
like a down-at-heel shoe discarded with sighing pleasure.

The crew, stripped to their pants—womanizers and wankers—
now that they’re in the south, sun themselves by the anchors,

without a coin in their pockets to do the city,
which closely resembles a distant pretty

postcard pinned to the sunset; across the water, flocking
clouds, the smell of sweaty armpits, guitars idly plucking.

Ah, the Mediterranean! After your voids, a humble
limb craves a labyrinth, a topographic tangle!

A camel-like superstructure, on its decaying basis,
through binoculars scans the promenade’s oasis.

Only by biting the sand, though, all tattoos faded,
can the eye of the needle truly be negotiated

to land at some white table, with a swarthy darling
of local stock, under a floral garland,

and listen as wide-splayed palms, above the bathhouse pennant,
rustle their soiled banknotes, anticipating payment.