The 

wind whispered 

behind her earlobe the way Antônio did.



Cool,  

it caressed the columns 

of her spine, 

making her moan 

as it walked down 

to her lower back like 

representatives in recess 

from Palácio da Justiça.



In the warmth, 
  
her chilling secret ceded a secretion 

down her cheek. 

She tried to 

hold it 

like the iron that held him, 



and 

somehow, simultaneously stir 

herself with the 

song that scintillated 

each plantar. 



Like glass, she wished her 

samba could shatter 

those bars, 

    her feet were jackhammers 

on the 

Praça da Sé concrete. 


Face of flint, 

she dared out dance    

all of Carnaval. 


The attenders 

cheered

in jubilation 

as her deep pain 

produced a perfection 

that would make the gods perturbed. 

         

        
       Antônio's sclera turned to zantedeschia. 
         
         
In the dank zoo,

he could only watch as he heard the hurricane, 

ignorant that the impetus was Indiorrani.
        
He felt a failure, 

and it tasted like the 

sewage that slapped 

the seafarers' visages. 



His 

hands 

outstretched 

like 

spaghetti 

into the sunlight, 

     and suddenly, 

his 

wrist 

felt 

as 

flaccid 

as undercooked macarronada. 


Each strand of his 

angel's hair bifurcated, 

and her aperture finally burst 

like bulbs in an earthquake. 


She 
   stood 
     still, 
        shaking, 
             sullen, 
                 somber.


   Antônio soul had sailed to the Grande Soneca, 
            in the starship of Santa Ana.