Poet Joshua Clover and 11 Students May Face Prison Time

Blood Me, the Room, Sighing
by stephen chamberlain

Flayed width. Doesn’t. Say needle I must be gone or I tame what
lengthens–this truculent periscope: first a mane, then visage; a
stippled wind and phaeton coasting thick of black. If I pane the
sculpture, I lose rage, and my napkin.

The ostriches now make one horny, only as I tell of a coatless door; a
wind sung through with moons. Fins arching across the shore, activated
by switches, smelling their secretions.

But his name–a lurching trilobite and horseshoes. Tell me not to erect
fences, for I fear them. No I am strong yet position a crow on my wing.
I’ve sand for platelets, a rope to lever the syringe into tear ducts.
My my gig lamp–her the couch, supine, the glow ascending to torch the
bottle’s ache.