City workers in business suits and skirts
begin streaming down local streets to the beaches
as if Rio alert to something unusual. Only room
to tiptoe between towels mats and people
pieced like a crazy quilt on the beach of song,
sunbathers and volleyball players gather in, make room.
The day’s fragrances wash us in waves of Brazilian rhythm: salt sea
each other’s coconut oil caipirínhas roasted cashews
agua de cocos sky’s vast dome a still, clear blue
but one tiny portion fills and holds our view
the sun is setting red and salmon pink small mountain range of
cloud dark blue—from whatever weather nowhere else—its ridgetop outline
midnight glyphic writing to us hugely beside the skyfruit salmon
a beautiful mysterious Cyrillic no one can read nor take eyes off
a god’s billboard hung for us to contemplate every detail
artistic brilliance any Russian here can read this? calls
from otherwise quiet my own crazy thought no one mocking
we are in another realm deeply untranslatable
reassuring and benevolent the salmon blushing gorgeous neon
down floats the sun loosing colors hallucinatory unnameable
as she glides under our world we all stand to keep sight of her
those seconds longer…till she goes and still we
stand hundreds of thousands in total silence facing the one direction
at Ipanema and Copacabana till a gentle puff-puff pair of hands
then everyone both beaches applauding softly softly maintains the tender quiet
Quantas vezes? I ask a Brazilian. —How often! This sunset? Standing?
That clapping? All around people were already asking to affirm. —Querida,
not in anyone’s years here. We Brazilians as a people, we know what it is,
special. You, Americana, you will wait, watch, but believe me, here
you will see—this will never happen again.