Samba in the Sky
The poor have the best views,
Views sloping down to sea.
A green and yellow planet,
A blue band, rung with stars.
The poor have the best views.
You have to walk to get there.
Up three flights, narrow paths,
Houses rising steeply side to side.
No, no space for a car.
When the flag lifts, you see the coast:
Yellow curve of sand,
Framed by reaching branches.
Little humpbacked islands,
Soon they will drill for oil there,
Deep underwater. Once microscopic
Diatoms swarmed in salt, danced, died.