Easter Sunday Brazil

 Each morning they re- hang the skyearly, before sunrise; it moves to left or right and  I look hard to see the gap between here and heaven. The sea returns and returnssprayed black and illuminatesthe swimmers, white in the moonlight. You have your moments; we talkin broken phrases, as time passeserratically culling the silence. The girls hover like angels theirskin sweet and multi – colouredI watch you sniff their fragments, You lie sanctified by dreama hedonistic sprawl of boy limbsand soft fur waxed into pillow. We will have to call love another namesuspended in this middle ground we jostlefor significance,  find it lacking.