V. Hierophant or Pope

Through tracks exhilarated by lightning, with a recent mood and tonic calf,
Your presence flaming like a fragrant heart fifth rung of the cosmic ladder,
It is an incident of survival. However, the arcs received were from toaster wires.
Finished with the satisfied earth, and its granite counters off-gassing radon—
From kitchens gleaming with recent paintwork—Such contact invariably affected slabs

They began to resemble Jovian bands, from where there is no bottom to restrict fluxes

To a thin layer. Staring again into a swirled worktop, and its conversion to clay fluxes
The brutality of which sophistication is capable; a frozen fat liquefied, or diners calf-eyed
Over frayed flesh. There, on a tumultuous altar, ironing dust flatter still, a star map’s slab
Serif imposes order. What could be taken along these windy stretches of descent ladders,
Abyssal creatures dumped upon a wharf? Neither Io’s belt of radiation, nor deposits of radon
Exchanged in the double ceremony of gold rings release the playing smoke, or slacken wires

Pulled increasing circumferences. Currents formed downwind of obstacles, their wires
Thread the dawn. It would seem an intervention of God, or the Jovian reapplied, a flux
Tube revisits an amatory birth, for volcanic plumes to condense as frost, chance that radon
Decay chains, like auroras, could disintegrate. Left discouraged waiting for the calving
Glacier, or because they made no effort to stay or run, initiates set about library ladders—
Their satellite faces pulled by resonant orbits, while atomic vibrations of ochre slabs

Waver imperceptibly. Puzzles of “we” the narrator, of hieratic writing, reverb of waffle slab,
Dropped ceiling—Without too much working over the office, and its piped whine of wire
Mattresses for how telescoped bits stand in relation to each other—One seated in ladder
Backed bar chairs, turning over flamed orange ends, carefully weighs the luminous flux
Of backlit mirrors. Determined that the whiner is getting away, or was it guilt’s pent calf?
The expression of radium emanation is very awkward, as is the strung-out order of radon’s

Daughters. Time spent corroborating such letters is spent; they are volatile as radon-rich
Water. If to gauge a temperament is cold-calling a dead number, or classifying concrete slab
Flowers, let it taunt a new generation of sleepers. Or, else bestir the now gelatinized calves.
The leaning proximity of your heart and misplaced keys, the trolley’s sparking overhead wires—

What helps immensely is knowing that you know—The long-recognized boutonnière fluxing
With anniversaries of war.  This time-adjusted portent suffers a rational unit system, its ladder

Of base ten and corralling powers, then there is a filed key to be had after the seeming ladders,
Weight-shedding, of years. Excluding dicta devoted to the prying of a lock, and shedding radon
Dense airs, the mind’s key passes a greater time in reinforced doors. Perhaps the soldering flux
Cleans the filth accrued from shifting past one another?  When looking up from the work slab,

I feel no logic in it—There, your gauntlet-numb fingers are hindered, if not by coiled wires,
Then where the exhaled oxygen is slow to fuel the burning part.  We receive slaughtered calves;

Albeit, reluctantly. After ascending the ladder, the convention is take hold of the bull calf—

Trusted because it generates similar predictions—yet the slab’s litany of road kills and black flux

Gives the game away. Jealousy registers the blank of accumulated radon, or another wireless dead spot.