In the Rijeka Harbor

So, what were you thinking? That the sea, by itself, would heal?

That it would bewitch you? You didn't notice its smell was

devoured by Austro-Hungarian arches, that the sounds of Paraf

were long gone. The locals unbutton their shirts, as though

they want to rush into the sea, as though they've no place to hide.

The malls and boutiques are closed, what's left are the benches in the harbor.

Stretch out on one of them, take off that pullover

still stiff with snow. Imagine the agave blooming, you

running after the ball, offering chocolate to seniors. If you succeed,

it will rain Hvar oranges. See, already crates full of stowaways

arrive on the boats.

In the evening, on Susak, as you sing and read,

say everything on the sly. Mention the body and the man

to the guy with the beer, the funny lady artist, the long-haired

activist. What were you thinking? I wasn't thinking a thing.