September 12th, 2014
There’s nobody around.
They’re all in the air-cooled shopping mall.
I’m standing in the red box’s shade,
my Berlin black and red scarf on turbanned to protect the wound,
Looking at the Niemeyer mound.
Its symmetrical form curves a white space
in the pure blue of the sky
its white cement fondue oozes up from the ground,
with water around.
About thirty seagulls hover and swoop;
One white heron struts.
The birds prefer this small lake
to the vast glistening sea just there.
The glistening sea. Its sparkling mass
is pierced by a still black jetty
where three men fish. Four herons – now one,
fly wide-white-winged over it.
The sun-swamped, sun-swooning sea
is flanked by horizons of mountains,
hundreds and thousands of mountains.
Pre Africa-land shift mountains.
Over the water, a cidade maravilhosa, I think City of God
and the favela guys streaming down their mountain to the glistening sea.