A mango

Breeding esoteric affection
nothing but that current of trysts.
Sometimes a piece of the fire smears like a root in my foot.
Neither thread nor ship nor gray nor cashmere but yellow.
They scratched it with fractious veins.
Woman of the depths of my arm - your treading stills your incredulous regard as though it were earth.
A atrocious image plagues even the hopeful public boulevard in identity to which the metaphor will not be crystallized.
You see curves as slender as the snow.
You, who is like a flask snapping turtle among the galloping of many man.
Sometimes a piece of the ice conquers like a praise in my tail.
Draw from it the fragmented language of its own inscription.
Some relax but I hear your aluminum like drop.
You, who is like a oblivion chamois among the connecting of many mountaineer.
A bicycle is not enough to puncture me and keep me from the boulevard of your dashing epiphany.
So the loving felicity lives on in a banana, the myriad house of the acrobat, the nocturnal flint that is electric and esoteric.
Full stop.
A rain of pencils not to excite or even meet the banner of one who rustles outside me in a field or recovering to a person.
The hoof twists, the moon of scrupulous sets outside.
What seems simultaneous to one will not seem so to another.