3 rio poems

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Copacabana, Sunday Afternoon

Fluid lines of black and white mosaic unfold
Beneath your feet. The Impressionist carpet.
Youngsters in their toy cars, Peruvian
Trinket-sellers, handball players, volley-
Ballers, families, tourists, zero-eyed
Beach bums, surfers, millionaires and paupers
Jockey for space, of which there is no sense of
Shortage. In the midst of this throng, a bunch of
Scruffy orphans fight over popcorn, squabbling
Like miscreant kittens, a whiff of favela,
As though by design. At a bar table drinking
Jugos of some yet-to-be-named fruit, three players
Assess a gun magazine, calibrating
Kill efficiency against aesthetics
Like true collectors, killer nerds. A youth
Shins up a coconut tree, throwing unripe fruit
At his friends, who pose for the camera. This is
The anarchic, democratic colony of
Copacabana, where every face fits, all souls
Are deemed equal.


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Hills

It seems against nature for a city to evolve
In a landscape such as this. Cities seek order,
Evenness, coherence. Instead, Rio surges
Out of the land like a drunken sailor,
All knees and elbows. Tunnels and bridges
Breach the geographical divide; join
The dots. Look up by night and a million
Spots of light speckle hillsides like a childhood
Dream of what the city might be: beach and cliff and
Bay, a home for elves, superstars and errant fairies.


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Bomba

For breakfast a concoction made from
Acai, guarana, peanut, protein, more.
As dense as a Cairngorn fog. Fuel for
Morning, afternoon, night and the month to come.


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