IX. Faire comme une fleur

IX. Faire comme une fleur

Exceeding reciprocating engines exhausting the turbines—A bystander’s cleft palate repair,
Without the muffle; allegedly ensnared by a macaw—Flailing the nearby counter of Cape Bay merchants absorbed by Edgars, the nine-week old's plumage was not anything like Léon Bakst’s
Supper scene from Schéhérazade (1910), from Les robes de Paul Poiret (1908)—
Unsteadied by the plucking one of its blood feathers, young Scurra’s lip margin seized as the faintest tear on a rose—
Told from him, blood spouted out like liquid from a teapot—John D. Baumann, of gums and fibers

Assented, and neither knew the lookouts required binoculars—A demoted officer had the fiber
In him to abscond with the keys, such was the preternatural fear of theft—Humming Cora, the Fair Chorine (1911), Lady Duff Gordon repaired
Through enchained smoke, the received answer of sunlight’s lithe border of Poiret’s label, La Rose
D’Iribe; maelstroms, in other sheaths—Cole Porter attended the Schola Cantorum after Fauré’s student, Ravel (1905); the latter at bay
Due to favoritism, who published Schéhérazade (1903); the first, berthed on a naval cruiser by Rimsky-Korsakov (1886)—The stage realized by Bakst,
The Bavarian, Lazarus Straus, his son, emigrating at nine, now proprietor of Macy’s, for a meeting with Rosenfelder, an unknown protégée of Poiret—

Before taking a sieved garret over the Irwell, Rosenfelder crossed (1908) the cage crinoline of the Palais Stoclet; swearing on Hoffmann’s first commission as a sanatorium—Aliasing Dufy, having seen Poiret’s
Opera coats in the castoff papers on the Brussels ferry—She rose like a tree, an English oak; Rosenfelder witnessing the inlay of the Stoclet frieze Knight, the Expectation, in the Tree of Life’s fibers
Like Klimt, the goldsmith’s son recognized methods, if not materials, of repairing
The veranda's moiré pattern through the gate, and the workmen took him on, that is—After Léon Bakst,
There are some reds which are triumphal, there are reds which assassinate, and the craftsman layers to induce these shades, the rose’s
Attar of a thousand dews—Cross-legged in Manchester, he dreamt of vitrines, from inevitable postponement onto the true profession, a faith in folded wings, more delicately, to dress a woman at bay

As she strides then through the Third Class door; his missing face at Cherbourg, palpable—High-waisted Adele is kept from propelling herself over—The bomb bays
No sooner pried open; rising from Kiel harbor, then Forseti’s island, Heligoland—C’est Moi, Erté’s drawings of Poiret’s
Undulating wave’s red-lined torpedo, into the Carpathia’s coal hulls abaft as this, as big as churches, the firing place—Rosine’s
Fragrance on the White Star paper, two pounds in her purse; he noted the salt soaked in the fiber
Of her silken slippers, having unknowingly taken the same route as Thomas Andrews repairing
With the daughter of a textile industrialist, his heavily pregnant wife, Helen, to review his labors, and excuse his absence—Bakst,

Beyond Pale of Settlement, journeyed to Paris, now approaches costumes of Le Spectre de la Rose (1911)–ELBA, in a tableau vivant only conceived by Bakst
And Les Ballets Russes—Their daughter would be known by her initials, the island where the Argonauts mended their hulls in the bays
Golfo di Campo and Golfo Stella; further mainland afforded an exile’s consolation of rose-tempered Aleatico (1814)—Counterpoint repairs
The dual-sided fabric; faults, almost common sense in celluloid film—Back from Archangel, Poiret
Held a masque, The Thousand And Second Night (1911)—He, who would soon be consigned as a military tailor, the Martinized rose
Of interiors; the fire feeds up the weighted hem, and is torn for bandages—After Puccini’s fifth and final revisions (1905), Madama Butterfly’s Cunard première, Dovunque al mondo, on how  a Yankee gathers the flowers, fibers

Of every rent petticoat—April 14, 2 p.m. ship’s log dissolved, Andrews is distracted by conversion of the writing room into more first-class accommodations, the reading man mislaid in the fibers,
Rending bulkheads of the preceding moments—Pronounced by Bakst’s
Terror Antiquus (1908), the placid expressions over the burning of Tiryns, or the ghetto he left, throwing up its rose
Gold light; owing to its percentage of copper, which won a gold medal at the Exposition Universelle (1910) in Brussels—The stewards secured the baying
Lower decks from first-class passenger, the Jesuit Francis Browne, who took the last picture—Lucile Gordon repairs
To a collapsible, paying the rowers each five pounds not to row back—Poiret’s

Gesamtkunstwerk is auctioned by the kilogram—Andrews, throwing deck chairs down from the Palm Court, pauses before a frozen Adele wearing Rosenfelder’s dress—He could not make out Poiret,

But in the fibers, of the nuptial body of his wife—Where the couturier commemorates the death of his daughter, Sang de France (1915)—Baying roses, as beneath our fingers, of the signal distress

Flares found by the Carpathia en route to Fiume, on the Dalmatian coast—Unheard by Cole Porter at 169 rue St.-Jacques, Déodat de Séverac’s one of nine Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal (1857), Les Hiboux (1910), of the black ifs harbored; their depths, the tumult of Bakst, repaired with their rebirth, the punishment of having tried to change places—