In Venezuela, which means “Little Venice”: thousands Snuffed, mud-choked. Corpse after corpse, dug up To be reburied, waits for a name. A mild impatience Marks the morning hours, the medical jeeps, the kids With picks, the smeared survivors staring. Television Doesn’t know how to blink: a tumbled wall, a dog, A hand and elbow remarkably whole and clean, All pour into its open drain without clogging the flow. And I too am capable of taking it all — five thousand Miles away, each detail fits behind my forehead, where I can find a word for it. And though my body knows The black weight mud must bring, it has forgotten Tears. Or buried them so deep they can’t be found, Way down below the heart, somewhere in there.