Sinbad, they say,

Sinbad, they say,
had a blouse of red satin
open to the navel.
I picture him deep
in thought, curling his chest hairs
with his fingers,
over the tattoo
of a bounding ship, the sails
white over a dark heart,
perhaps in dreams
of Buddha khan, leaning back
in a tavern chair.
Both of the oceans
sing lyrical from your eyes,
the songs of sailors.
The eye of a sea tortoise,
is your birthstone in my dreams.
Your fist is a wounded hymn
which wakens the haunted Generalissimo
from his silken sleep;
the jaguar prowls the jungle.
Your nostrils swell wide as sails
as tomorrow blossoms in the wind’s salt blow.
Yet you’re not Sinbad,
amigo, you are Domingos
and I praise you here.