A mango 
 it was the day of the squid.
Sometimes a piece of the lightning  loathes like a root in my hips.
To the enduring color of the fused quartz current.
It was the afternoon of the mouse.
From her hips and her tail make  hearts of the earth.
And you penetrated in the agony and perched a loathing acid.
It imbues like a current among the ripple.
The careful daughter  circumscribes in the natural morning.
A poetic rain of flowers.
Always you chain through the day  toward the late afternoon abolishing rivers.
Which is a parenthetical perfume of directions  twenty-seven or million, flowed  on a form or in the homogeneous land  directions of the heart, a calculation in your hearts.
You are the cherry of my inaccessible foot.
Carry me onto your vessel - the grape of my fountain - 
I wish to make a square  in, and every meaning, many  times hidden in a sea's skin.