I sit in the park near the Governor's House, one leg      crossed over the other, my rectangular glasses, book in hand, in perfect imitation           of the sculpture of Rui Barata, the poet. Side-by-side we contemplate the rouged lips of the orchids,           glossy in the jambeiro trees, and the sky's       deep blue bodice with its embroidery of pearl-white clouds,                and I remember a few days ago at the gold-mining camp in Palito      when Robert's crew came off shift at 6:00 AM                and saw a black onça sitting in the red dust of the road                     looking them up and down,      and how, later, pacing across the top of the great earth dam           I wondered what large thing                might be looking me up and down                among the felted leaves and the singular                     sun-bleached blossoms: cream,      then yellow, then cream again...