when my heart comes to me
through the night
the streets where horse carts go
clip-clopping to collect black bags
of trash
are fragrant with fallen flowers
from the frangipani trees

when my heart comes to me
through the night
I set a table by the window
with bread and wine and sweet
dark figs

and write this little poem
as a full-blown paper moon
of waiting
to echo that other of white stone
outside
traveling the night
where dark men drive their horses

when my heart comes to me
through the night
when the waiting is filled
with words
we'll eat the figs and drink the wine
and make love to the moon

—Porto Alegre