When out of mangos come parsley,
cilantro, coral and craft,
we know everything is some time seed.
Ants march in line
from a dark washout in the sky
and the frog elopes with her mate
to a dark corner of the village.
It reminds me of the rich taste
of laughing with fruit half chewed
in the mouth, nakedness in the wilds,
ducks appearing
from a place on the water
where sword lights cluster
and break and become pink
under the dermis of vegetables.
The ducks make circles there,
collect their gems and fly.
With us at the edge,
pointing, reaching,
glad for undertow, glad for air.
