A sweet dream while drifting on sleep’s shore
resting on sleep’s shoulder
a short doze, a light sleep
awakened by the keening of gulls
and the clanging of buoy bells.
Suddenly you and I
are dancing in Brazil
in the tavern by the sea
where Donga made the samba
dancing to the rhythms from Angola, from Luanda.
Apollo risng o’er Corcovado
you wave to me from a yellow shore; beckoning
like the banner of a free country
“Venha para mim!”
throwing a kiss across the water.
My shirt is wet;
was one of us weeping?
Only the night shirt knows