Definitely, Brodsky. Unfortunately, not many of his poems were written in English, and only a few were translated.

  All the huskies are eaten. There is no space
  left in the diary And the beads of quick
  words scatter over his spouse's sepia-shaded face
  adding the date in question like a mole to her lovely cheek.
  Next the snapshot of his sister. He doesn't spare his kin:
  what's been reached is the highest possible latitude!
  And like the silk stocking of a burlesque half-nude
  queen it climbs up his thigh: gangrene.