It’s crowded on the coasts of Europe.
Tourists, drunk in the sea, swim past wreckage
from the boat that brought the refugees,
an inconvenience that spills over
in the sun-lit olive-grove evenings,
Skyping and emailing home
laments about their spoiled fun.

Hotel rooms with a view of tents and
camps, a razor-wire realm that traffics
flesh and people. Eyes at the fence
sink like boats in the night.
It’s crowded on the coasts of Europe.

Translated by David Colmer