In Brazilian Portuguese the samba
is the sonnet, lovely lazy lively
lilt slipping through shoulders, hips, lips, toes, hands
to be breath and so smooth how time flowers
Before there were any words, Jobim made
sun, sand, sea, saudade, me, and the girl
who was completely sound without need of flesh,
she of the slightest stirrings of our air
No knowing now, ever, how samba means
outside itself, except it lilts us let
go grip of grasping selves, dance with shadows
sculpted from blocking light of this, this… life
ah, sway, syncopated, counting deeper
sweeter than any beat, more…less regular