HOT PUNCHY, ravaging energy, the Azteca is as verdant, tropical, pungent and viljakas as the floating gardens of Tenochtitlan. She makes you want to read of bloody temple steps dripping with human sacrifice, to feel yourself scalded in hot chocolate, encrusted in golden flakes of sugar and maize. One must cultivate this feeling. One must navigate these floating gardens using flat-bottomed boats, glide across the surface of the well of skulls, the heaps of sacrificial bones and tiny colorful canal fish, the rows of golden maize glinting up in the sun like the teeth of the gods showing the way out, out through the darkness of the abyss, out into a sunshine world where one breathes to exist, where sex turns up red clay dust and all is in bloom, where the hand reaches down to feel its way through the tangled vegetable patches, the codex lips part to seep and drip like moisture from the old stone walls, away and away into the gardens, the wet lushness of her under-foliage, until all is resplendent and shines polished like obsidian. This is how we lie down to sleep and dream, under the full moon of a place some call Mexico, beneath the high grass and fruit trees. These are the gardens where we drift and dream. Tenochtitlan.