Le Pendu XII

Suddenly, and marvelous to tell, new bees—the racked flesh in its sea
Of signaling molecules continues to move.  Exactly suited to the person, landscapes

Embolden thoughts of death. Beneath outlined lips, the philtrum—a nose
Perpetrates the mille-fleur of memory. Head hanging off a calamitous raft,
Eyes themselves encourage a confidence never owned. Night-growths of chypre—
Rather it would be felled laurels, resurrection plants, stale buttercream flowers—the sting

Of death in exhaled tobacco smoke from apparent hives, if to render the sting
Over what was said—Pricked fingers plaiting a bed of violets.  These cartographic seas
Stirring miserably in a common rain; as if they must suffer accordingly the chypre
Discharged from a neck’s knotted silk. It is obvious one prefers to forget landscapes—
Smooth their broken ways; remit the daily allowance of unchanged caffeine, like pumice rafts
Making island rounds—For those who would receive our intemperate seeds. Of the noses

It is probable only the wisest were deceived. By humidity and hedonic tone, a nose
Rediscovers its purpose. That they should be gained by numbers; but lost in fact, the stings

Answer queries across darkened theater seats. From every economic sector, fragrant rafts
Of untouched bodies after the bed has been aired—Verified in the far sink, completely at sea
Those who overpromise painted leaves—luxuriantly dense—where supplanting hardscape
Is insufficient to recharge a water table. Skin and silence stirred-tank hydrodynamics, chypre

Halts us in human form; and with increasing oakmoss descends. Otherwise, the chypre
May not be the wish of everyone out of the drawbridge of night. Such reckoning, a nose’s
Waist-high walk to a hanged man, or the vanished copse located by a wreck—Landscapes
Are broken up; and trapped in membranous folds—with catalysts, curing agents—few stings
Revive such individuals. Protecting themselves from blows, they bend down to the sea

Only to wash their hands.  Fortified from sight, then what evidence anticipates the raft

Of pollinators returning to the same blooms, if not for the caffeine? Bees rafting
Undulations of raspberry and rape using our laborious attitudes; it was not for a chypre
In human olfactive sense—The coffee flower absorbs them utterly—Among floral seas
Always circular, enclosed, much like their brooding cells—as an arousing nectar. The nose
Appears very flat indeed against the transmission engineering. Incident to stings,
Field lines, and ink left in print recesses, such processes form our personal landscape.
 
Nevertheless, tests would be scored overnight—To consign us to fallen landscapes.
The cornice hive is destroyed for the public interest. A network switches on for rafts
Of incoming mail. Granting that the others be similarly moved, we rely on stings
To identify our affections. That chokingly leather note and crushed flowers of chypre
Granulates slowly on a body arrived breathless and hobbled in footwear.  The nose
Is unclear what sense it is expected to return—Makes no effort to enter heavy seas.

How does a fragile scent prevent these landscapes from combining prematurely; seas
From being crossed? With an induced compass for a nose, my exasperated raft is
Guided to act by a stung pride, by the guarded throat’s chypre until it can speak for itself.