Esmeralda’s ruined body rests in dark waters.
Wreathes mark the spot one day each year,
dropped from the air, a moment made moving
by its nearness to a lover’s gesture.
A hundred and more yards west,
the small boats go back and forth,
colorful sails overtopped with black crepe.
The gulls shout, alive and demanding,
and no one abuses them for their noise,
the blond sleeper too far down,
too far into her dream to be kissed awake again.