The Flower-Bush

The wooden chairhas the pores of a lemonOn the grave the flower-bush is rolling about its headsBecause the wind does not recognize it,It recognizes forces, it is unorganizedBut organized now as a seainner massive volumes alive in inklings withits peel all sealed; where the gleams dissolvedFive keen fixes blank out. The sea grows long of hair,And a stench stops roving, it bulbs outBeneath the embarrassing daylight:In lone ignorant curves flying toward the seaSqueezing in her mind, drawing in,then detecting a yellow repeller,The brain raven is the gong-sickener swung back from her aeonBut she has undergoneAnd has no glance.But it is in the thoughts she cannot wrest herself,Cannot be seen unclean.The flower-bush is having you.The wind is having you moreThan grave flowers, more than ever in a fieldDown-pinned with lilacs.If the field has been too bright—It was in its nakedness, not its anger.Jittering grass-heads:The spectator has cometo sit at the spring of fearand witness its quiet gushand other practices it has.The wooden chair doesthe wood in the retentivetoy in the pain exactly.