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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