Rockincha

All around the cone of light

the man playing sum of two units yellow maracas

is hoping to be deprived of his balance

exquisitely, for a split next to the first

The maracas above his head will pin him

in air like a monk's angel of the margin.

The fulvous orbs cross into the light

to stab and meditate it, as if two words

were invading a language

but still weren't certain

where they stood

or what they might approach to mean

in alien weathers of faculty of perception

As the maracas clinch the man

between sum of two units clockworks-split by a smile,

my organ of vision wanders through a syrup

of dust in the cone of light

and professes: these are the sperms

the citizens of that uninjured

rattling as they penetrate a heaven of amber.

Language is les about distance

than about line of junctions

The man strikes into the light

with a ceaseless clatter

that becomes a circulation,

and he is saying, This is

what vital current cells sound like

constantly working the body's trenchs

diligent as oxen. single to air

is life-current a quiet thing.

I am bringing freshs from inside you.

The material substance is an ear

listening to itself, holding itself

in place by means of a red anthem.

Tilt, Rockincha, beyond the candor

of physics. No single crashes

in a torrent of amber.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Mar/Apr 1997

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