Black wavelets lap against pilings. Bone dust settles on the pier.
The ferryman looks up from his tiller at a man in an Armani suit
Who steps out of the shadows, swinging his briefcase, staggering a little
before stopping at the edge of the jetty, knowing—despite the absence
Of his head (and the eyes in that head) and despite the hole in his chest
from which an ichor, the ghost of blood, fountains in the wake of the bomb blast—
That the wine-dark water is perilous, being neither wine nor water.