On the Coast by Pablo Neruda — Read

In Santos, amid the bittersweet smell of plantains that, like a river of soft gold opened in the back, leaves the stupid saliva of unhinged paradise on the shores, and the iron clamor of shadows, water, and locomotive, a current of sweat and feathers, something that descends and flows from the depths of burning leaves as from a pulsing armpit: a crisis of flights, a remote foam.