The Mango Tree
Let them return, saying you blush again for the great
Great-grandmother. It's all like Christmas.
When you sprouted Paradise a discard of chewing-gum
took place. Up jug to musical hanging jug just gay spiders
yoked you first, “ silking of shadows good underdrawers for
First-plucked before and since the flood, old hypnotisms
wrench the golden boughs. Leaves spatter dawn from emerald
cloud-sprockets. Fat final prophets with lean bandits crouch:
the dusk is close
Under your noon,
you Sun-heap whose
ripe lanterns gush history, recondite lightnings, irised.
O mister Se±or
Maggy, come on