One morning in February in the hot white rain      alone in Praça Baptista Campos      surrounded by the distant demeanour      of late 19th century English landscaping—the gazebos,      miniature bridges, everything so constrained      and diminished, at least to me,           I called upon the god Anhangá,           I huddled beneath the lone brazil nut tree—      and a single blossom drifted down, turning and turning...