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[Mandrake Vehicle 3]
- University of Illinois Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
102 for it promised sleep in delicate voice, for how must the blossom be discovered but sadness swayed a body to its knees, the bloom obscured by lonely parasols of green (for deeply, deeply the opposing lobes divided), and seen through the wet lash, sudden, like grace, a silent thing looks on in white, as if the heart’s damp handkerchief rubbed gently through the casing, and hanging face-down offers sleep, a nauseating scent wafting from its yellow center where buffed trumpets herald in formation, a circle-lure for the liquid self [invisible, eternal the want] to pour, a tongue of light lisped in by fork, to pry dark molecules open—for what’s the lethal dose of us?— delirium, by grief to drink the tincture or taste a shaving of the mortal stem, for we yield a three percent of ash upon incineration, for we sway indifferent lovers who drink the philtres of our mix, for rubbed externally, a burning, though the moon be full above the gallows tree, or infusion of the extract, or inhaled soporiĀc vision [procession of the dead, the threaded animals who came when called, unknowing, tied about the excavated base and called by name, came running toward a loved, familiar voice]—for we the first to rise, before the panoply of leaves, and we, arriving through the thaw, the urgent cloak of bones, we cover first the wreckage—but then the swelling of the flower into sphere, which sometime in the ripening (from petulance to succulence) persuaded, and sometime blushed to yellow, fragrant—for all about, the sun, the air, the moss converged in steadfast deed, an easy warming of the basking leaves, a buoyancy of petal, a soft embracing of the Ābers—and from the clenched green surface of the rind, worked inward to the center, from all sides inward, and found there a petal hiding, its dented crown in shambles, its anguish befuddled, and it: ripe for a new wondering—so swayed, the thin shafts of poison realign to nectar, the undone toxin ripe for the bee sip, to rosin the drawn legs of the grasshopper, varnish for the pulled note, a stay in slash against the slate— 103 for it promised sleep in delicate voice, for how must the blossom be discovered but sadness swayed a body to its knees, the bloom obscured by lonely parasols of green (for deeply, deeply the opposing lobes divided), and seen through the wet lash, sudden, like grace, a silent thing looks on in white, as if the heart’s damp handkerchief rubbed gently through the casing, and hanging face-down offers sleep, a nauseating scent wafting from its yellow center where buffed trumpets herald in formation, a circle-lure for the liquid self [invisible, eternal the want] to pour, a tongue of light lisped in by fork, to pry dark molecules open—for what’s the lethal dose of us?— delirium, by grie to drink the tincture or taste a shaving of the mortal stem, for we yield a three percent of ash upon incineration, for we sway indifferent lovers who drink the philtres of our mix, for rubbed externally, a burning, though the moon be full above the gallows tree, or infusion of the extract, or inhaled soporiĀc vision [procession of the dead, the threaded animals who came when called, unknowing, tied about the excavated base and called by name, came running toward a loved, familiar voice]—for the first to rise, before the panoply of leaves, and we, arriving through the thaw, the urgent cloak of bones, we cover first the wreckage—but then the swelling of the flower into sphere, which sometime in the ripening (from petulance to succulence) persuaded, and sometime blushed to yellow, fragrant—for all about, the sun, the air, the moss converged in steadfast deed, an easy warming of the basking leaves, a buoyancy of petal, a soft embracing of the Ābers—and from the clenched green surface of the rind, worked inward to the center, from all sides inward, and found there a petal hiding, its dented crown in shambles, its anguish befuddled, and it: ripe for a new wondering—so swayed, the thin shafts of poison realign to nectar, the undone toxin ripe for the bee sip, to rosin the drawn legs of the grasshopper, varnish for the pulled note, a stay in slash against the slate— [54.242.75.224] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 09:56 GMT) 104 for it...