A bleak year. year of refugees, impure year. Year of...

Your line is lofty and metallic
on the shores of ocean
and air,
like a wire of 
tempests and tension.
But, Europa, you're also
nocturnal,
blue, and boggy:
swamp and sky,
an agony of hearts
broken
like black oranges crushed
in your storeroom silence.

Do they expect to much?
Do we?
Can we?
To many?
Can we help?