In Morro de Sao Paolo, they play beach
          volleyball without using
their hands, and an old Portuguese fort
          sits at the tip where 
incandescent butterflies flit 
          about, baby green iguanas dart,
and hibiscus and angel’s trumpet 
          fill the most hardened nose.
Glistening waters meet crystal beaches,  
          but the sand harbors
a hookworm that burrows under  
          your feet, walks a track
on the bottom. And you can trace
          its migration, feel it 
when it moves. But it never made a path 
          to my heart, and ate away 
at the bedrock that blocks it 
          and I went to a doctor 
who gave me a pill to kill it 
          and I swear I felt it 
when it died.