Red on blue and streaks of brown, and white,
all metallic colours. So dawns
the day over a desolate quayside
of goods in transit and dock workers, and a dance
of death at Algesiras.
No, this is no Pontormo: the truck doors
yawn open, revealing a load of boxes (Primeurs),
tangerines and corpses. Frozen in gesture, the last of them,
a Moroccan hand, then the whiteness,
the grimace of asphyxiation.
Behind him, another four, twisted together. Faulty
generator, leak of gas, illegal immigrants.
Squads of police.