(originally published at The Literary Nest,2015)
It starts with that lean horn
bending toward the moon
like some crazy arrow
weaving a wild path
on the way to its mark.
It continues with him,
hipster nod, street lamp look,
smiling like a prophet
who knows just why the world
is round, why it orbits
in circles, frenzied pace,
in and out of control.
He walks a smooth, straight line
from corner to corner
of the lit-up room, horn
dancing all on its own.
The man's fingers sure know
about flow, the way they
lead themselves to samba
like they were born island
children, with the music
bred in them, as natural
as wolves howling all night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem