V. Découvrir le pot aux roses

V. Découvrir le pot aux roses

Among the knotted figuration of Michelangelo’s five sibyls (1508-1512)—As one
Dispossessed of a red chalk study; possibly, requiring no preparation, the Cumaean Sibyl
Disappeared among men as the breath waiting; her massive station purged to readiness—
La Congiura, the conspiracy in a trapezoid vestibule of the Sun’s penetrating root
Depths—In as many years, giving particles of pozzolana their sheen, with equal parts lime,
Set into mortar by seawater, whose massive arms mislaid her six volumes—Hell’s lake rose

Up to greet him—Aeneis Liber VI.697-702 (29-19 B.C.E) and Hermann Broch’s I. Water—The Arrival (1945)—Rose
Ausländer, Austrian, foreigner—Steinlebendigkeit, or a living stone, Michelangelo’s purification of the resulting material, of one
Foamed red as the Tiber, whiplashing in our veins—February 1963, she noticed the Paine family’s real lime
Wood shades—Marina thought of Mercury’s first Soviet recordings, the Osipov Orchestra’s Linden Trees, at a dance, where she met Lee (1961)—A sibilant
Student of Russian, Ruth, the engaging wife of a trust beneficiary, employed at Bell Helicopter bucketing Agent Orange over Vietnam—Already
Estimating the due date of their second child; his fist’s lava field spreading on Marina’s face, rooted

Around, to set her and June up in the garage (April 1963)—The first anniversary of the Six-Day, the June War, June 5, 1968, arriving rooted
In the crimson fence paint; bespattered by it, as with a too-soon removed intravenous catheter; its bore of blood thinner, The Girl in the Polka-Dot Dress (2011)—Rose
Whimpered less for the windscreen in Utah than the struck dog overthrown by its red-handed owner—Aeneas, on the readied
Womb’s fidelity of death, his aside to Juno—Surveying the girth of the Acheron, about glancing the will of Heaven (VII.132) prefacing The Interpretation of Dreams (1911)—One,
Dr. Wheeler guided Rose, if you hold an object that close to your eyes, you shut out the rest of the world—Watching him polishing his gun, Marina longed for the liminal
Lee—Now executing a few stabs into her, with aggravation pouring out of his neck, as she figured signa of the Minsk pharmacy, where Irving, Texas had its own sibyl—

Ruth Paine, who later drove her to Parkland hospital, and discounted the delivery with a blood gift (October 1963)—Sibylline,

The dentist’s secretary, Rose leads with Robert Lowell, the car hood’s lime sap, blood from his first wife’s face and skull, as he walked away unscathed—His madness rooting,

Taking hold; a backer of McCarthy (1968)—At once deafening, the crash into a wall in Cambridge (1941)—Elsewhere, into a second wife—Elizabeth Bishop’s letters from Brazil, the sandpiper’s rose and amethyst (1956), a liminal

Sand-counting of her days in exile—To Lowell from Maclean; his third wife, a dolphin (1973)—Rose

Finds it odd Harold cracks the radio passing the streets of Baltimore charred as the Blitz—Kerosene Fire Burns Along Lombard Street (April 8, 1968)—She stares as one

Receiving a pulsed message from somewhere in Los Angeles, the body as a Book Depository; a swerve of German, after the scorching towers, Averno (2006), where the unspeakable has entered them, and in this, I feel readied—

   
By the immobile in the soft welling, the round-eyed fish-folk, regulated with age, of her first mate, Lucian Freud, as The Girl in the Green Dress (1954), photographed by Walker Evans—The wake of readiness
Of the picture-story format from a train window—Roses only, What is brilliance/ without co-ordination? Marianne Moore’s tenth in the sibylline
1917 anthology—Marina; her mind racing back to New York, like the whippet, Pluto, among the daubed rags, she misses an unexperienced diurnal knot, as one
Walking into this, her second, almost to bursting, calls him home—General Walker, April 11, 1963 is alive; how there are Ruth Ausländer’s miles of dark dressed in a naked question mark (1948–1956)—Rooting
Into her flank, his desire is an airsteam in the dark, suggesting murder—She wants to die, but for this life chest containing the work, the disinfecting lime

Left in the atrium grating Maro’s blood cough—Marina, enveloping the hard,earthly reality of the skeleton, where the liminal
Rose gives this trembling man a smoke; submerged in her estimate of home, where water prevents the gills from collapsing—Dr. Wheeler’s photo of Rue Jacob, the Flood of 1910, with the books, lingers since their first
Interview—In a riot-filled city, the show room furniture boarded; the thoughts in one's mind, uprooting
Us, and governing the nature of the two to enter—After Glück, the auspicious October (2014), what it sounds like cannot change what it is (2006)—Looking away from the set, already
November 22, 1963—Marina sees him firing, among the stacks of books, his early shot—The sibilant
Frames Life magazine damaged in their copy, there were roses on the seat between Jack and Jackie—After the second cartridge fell to the floor, one

Serviceman pushes the subliminal wife, off the hood, back into the car—She wants to get out, as the pregnant one collapses over his brother clutching the dishwasher’s rosary, on the kitchen floor (June 5, 1968)—

Looking for someone, the unfinished draft on the unit bedside taken up again, for the readiness of laying in, uprooted from all that is known—

A star of blood delicate as a snowflake on each of our sibilant lips that first read, An Adventure, (April 1, 2013) 6. […] You had been with me—Together, in this last analysis—