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.