Hear the moktak on the rua,
bateria dos brasileiros.
The first bee
appears after
milk is poured into soil.
Haze as
when gazing west,
we,
moving east
see the least among us,
a tiny snail
or gnat.
Clearly,
air
that rises,
cleans.
Seems
the moktak
hits out 108
or
2/4 rhythym
one hundred twenty
wood stick
beats
to a minute.
In an hour,
after the dogs
remain silent
and the
birds
spire
over the street
we with doubting hearts
and unused malas
with rusty marias
sing in
