Sweet stalks!—found at a French Market
stall in their greengrocer's bundle,
half-disguised by lettuces and chards,
a bit of roseate root still visible,
and crowned in forest fronds—now cooked
(as if intended from eternity for butter
or a hollandaise), await our delectation.
Laureates of salad, lances for a royal
plate, acanthus of the dinner table—all
the images you wish, and nothing more.
For they are either only a phenomenon,
an indicator of the world—a vegetable—
or they are of the mind, a verdant poem;
if so, I thank you, I'll not countenance
that talk of symbols and of Dr. Freud.
Let him dream on in slumber undisturbed,
see monsters coupling if it pleases him,
or virgins in Vienna panting in pursuit
of fleet phantasmagoric phallic forms:
these grainy-tipped and handsome spears
suggesting still a ferny perfume, fresh
as from a kitchen garden, offer no one's
fantasies, but sun and rain and mineral
transformed, a celebration of the earth
made edible and toothsome for our flesh,
by which we realize in bodies an idea,
like music played on carcasses of wood
and string, as world and image coalesce,
the soul of feeling magnified in sound
and vibrating to heaven's leafy vault.
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