Trinidad

Calypso music
finds the places
satellites can’t see.

With rhinestones and feathers
and the segundo beat
beneath the mambo
filling the holes
left by barracuda,

with cunning hips,
and thigh-rippled skirts,
carnival leaves behind,
for the sad
days of money,
a burial in the road.

Like when a river
dives below ground
and rises again like Lazarus,
surprising would be swimmers.

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