the face

Stephen Chamberlain

 

the face, unbloodied studiously

numinous in its sounds-like-ruinous phoneme

i hone ‘em in the seine’s froth that reduces one’s fins to

sloth chalk, what these men meant waving

like my ears’ want to hear through a vent, haunt

of the last urge to

not spell that so it was sent, sir

that as a blanket with sweat anemoned

in the last china fiber

rhyme a pearl with the whistle

inside her—fur

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