The Batista waterfall is half-

erased, disappears
before it hits the ground. Dona Aúrea
loves to talk about how
the world is ending. At my ear,
this drab throb, the canyon swallowing
the sun. I hold a glass of cachaça
up to the sinking light: a cloudy
eye. Once when we were young 
and unyoked we watched oxen
mill the sugar cane to terrifying
proof. Dona Aúrea, it’s true, the world
is ending: in the cataract’s
obliterating mist. In the kiss
of the hummingbird’s
fringed tongue.