Spring

[Mandrake Vehicle 1]

88 not knowing enough to shriek when (not knowing when) they were pulled, a root hair, when the tendrils broken, the network of unfurling towards, and the long lines connecting them underground (oh at Ārst they had only grown vertically from the dirt, a mere), at Ārst the piercing (a thin shriek as the stem passed through the rub—the dull catch at the cylindrical surround, of the follicles against the grainy remnants) (or a shrill?—eternal, as the metal axis pushed timeless through the iron heart of the earth)—was it—of surface, liminal, for Ārst there was a layer, first, a membrane of dust to host the inĀnitesimal rupture (the shed skins loosed to granule)—(and the shedder of skins, first?), the upheaval of plane from below, as from a slow lymphatic magma congregating its massive but disparate angers—call it desire—and the stem emerging, forth, and the volume of sky in blue, like a cellophane to enfold in sheer the arriving, to laminate the pushing blade, the shape as ever its conĀnes reach (a hope), as ever, from all sides hearing the loved voice, warm, it sends out ears to the vast dome, emissaries of devotion, though ever the song a liquid of tongues, the slim words dissolving, though ever the pulsing source a fainter circle, distant insignia, and beyond (though the enraptured green makes a fluttering of lashes, the grounded one pleading [again?] )—but the brighter thing like on the other side of glass, a passing in arc—And is it not enough to see (though still the great blue insulation enwraps, a tangible between, a Ābrous), still—still the tiny peering from beneath the blunt rock as beyond, the beautiful pale curve [as a cheek] subsides, a mask-shard declined from a far dark face—and still the eventual banners urged from the earth, wrung from the earth (as tears, as a gratefulness born withering), end (begin?) unfurling green in the blue day, in the white day, umbrellas for the patio of dirt awaiting—and in the meantime (an unmarked always segmented by the turned and overturned sand) the dirt agreeing on points from the typed agenda, a construct in dots 89 not knowing enough to shriek when (not knowing when) they were pulled, a root hair, when the tendrils broken, the network of unfurling towards, and the long lines connecting them underground (oh at Ārst they had only grown vertically from the dirt, a mere), at first the piercing (a thin shriek as the stem passed through the rub—the dull catch at the cylindrical surround, of the follicles against the grainy remnants) (or a shrill?—eternal, as the metal axis pushed timeless through the iron heart of the earth)—was it surface, liminal, for Ārst there was a layer, first, a membrane of dust to host the infinitesimal rupture (the shed skin oosed to granule)—(and the shedder of skins, first?), the upheaval of plane from below, as from a slow lymphatic magma congregating its massive but disparate angers—call it desire—and the stem emerging, forth, and the volume of sky in blue, like a cellophane to enfold in sheer the arriving, to laminate the pushing blade, the shape as ever its confines reach (a hope), as ever, from all sides hearing the loved voice, warm, it sends out ears to the vast dome, emissaries of devotion, though ever the song a liquid of tongues, the slim words dissolving, though ever the pulsing source a fainter circle, distant insignia, and beyond (though the enraptured green makes a fluttering of lashes, the grounded one pleading [again?] )—but the brighter thing like on the other side of glass, a passing in arc—And is it not enough to see (though still the great blue insulation enwraps, a tangible between, a Ābrous), still—still the tiny peering from beneath the blunt rock as beyond, the beautiful pale curve [as a cheek] subsides, a mask-shard declined from a far dark face—and still the eventual banners urged from the earth, wrung from the earth (as tears, as a gratefulness born withering), end (begin?) unfurling green in the blue day, in the white day, umbrellas for the patio of dirt awaiting—and in the meantime (an unmarked always segmented by the turned and overturned sand) the dirt agreeing on points from the typed agenda, a construct in dots 90 not knowing...