A moment after midnight
every night
jazz begins to soak the Jazz Corner
like new wine
like village wine

A moment after midnight
every night
a woman descends a dark staircase
to sing Brazil
or balconies in candlelight
or the village girls

A moment after midnight
every night
A door is opened
and the flower seller enters
tired
and she leaves tired and crowned with anguish
and the aroma of the villages

A moment, after the clock strikes three
I shut my lids
The Jazz Corner is asleep under my eyes
I hear the pulse of your hands on my arm
and I am comforted
and I feel in the silence the pulse of the villages.

November 21, 1990