Nocturnal gardens under slowly ripening mangoes. Maximilian dances what one day will be a tango. His shadow twirls the way a boomerang does and the temperatu

Nocturnal gardens under slowly ripening mangoes. Maximilian dances what one day will be a tango. His shadow twirls the way a boomerang does and the temperature's an armpit 98. The iridescent flicker of a silver waistcoat; and a mulatto girl melts lovingly like chocolate while in a masculine embrace she purrs insensate, here—soft as wool, there—smooth as plate. Nocturnal silence underneath the virgin forest. Juarez, now the spearhead of, say, progress, to his peons who never saw two pesos distributes rifles in the dark of night. Bolts start their clicking, while Juarez on squared paper puts little crosses, ticking off each happy taker. A gaudy parrot, one who never makes mistakes or lies, sits on a bough and notes their plight: Scorn for one's neighbor among those who sniff the roses may be, not better, but more straight than civic poses. But either thing gives quite a rise to blood and bruises. Worse in the tropics, here, where death, alas, spreads rather quickly in the way flies spread infection, or as a bon mot in a cafe draws attention, where three-eyed skulls among the thickets rate no mention; in every socket—a clump of grass. Joseph Brodsky in translation, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pE3wptN-MFA https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pE3wptN-MFA