XX. Le Jugement

XX. Le Jugement

Trinity—After your apsidal room takes on seawater, an afterimage
Posits a time lapse of the past half-century in live leaves, thorn
Galls; and later, in flesh and folded rice paper of those ensuing
Days she has exhausted—Guanyin, on a rockwork ledge of ivory
Scoring the bomb-curve remittance—The once compact, horny
Layer of victims left only in shadow, now shifting in radioisotopes

Of all the carbon sinks of the world—Dashed out in radioisotopes
Blood was no thicker in your fingers; before negative afterimages

You already burst into tears, but reemitted photons behind the horny
Whites of your eyes—Sclerae are bluish in the young—Pierce like thorns
For unbleached receptor—Close to the time of slaughter, elephant ivory
Reanimates its plaques and fobs, to afford some clearance to the ensuing

Sublime—With one kill shot, the largest land animal staggers to the ensuing

Butchery in the grass—Left for a fly swarm, the meat pleas to radioisotopes—
Where trusting bodies glimmered in the sand of a nuclear test site, before ivory
Gates of modern photography, of controlled distaste and feigned afterimages,
Numbness of recent years—By dating the carbon-14 isotope, an embedded thorn
Of a year is refused—The furtive mind isolates surfactant midway up a saddle horn,

To mount a lathered horse, to check the flesh-glow of ivory—Keratinous horns,

Having reached their appointed course in a barroom, are steadily bored by the ensuing

Moth larvae—Migrant or fixed, an oxygen chronometer is rendered by invisible thorns

Of saguaro—A timekeeping soon applied to prickles of an offending rose—Radioisotopes

Underwrite policies, even when the sentiments remain foreign, as second afterimages.

For when excavated Mammoth tusks outnumber fragments of the True Cross, the ivory

Gate flashes from gold leaf and egg white, a terrifying insomnia descends on the ivory
Possessor—The heart strains its intercalating discs—New resonances display the horns

Exaggerated by the cuckold’s own heartbeat—Sowing a bed of iron spears, afterimages
Are raised to their own wretched conditions—There, in a tortured scrub, where the ensuing
Deformities of poaching are parted by photographers; they fail one plying radioisotopes—
Does it entail great suffering, like coiled whips that brought it down, the mail order, thorn-sized

Sample of a dowager’s figurine? To a technician, seated before a mortuary exercise, what thorn
Excuses the lameness? It is early yet, tracking your gaze through a pyre of confiscated ivory
To provide the answer in kind, in the upper world, beyond the 1963 peak of radioisotopes—

Rewriting time, you may tell with maximum certainty where I am looking—Where the horned
Layer of epidermis crumples under the capsized raft of Sleep, and accept the hazards ensuing
All the motions later being filtered out, and filling the empty streets with your afterimage—

Should we walk in this garden with the afterimage of a browsing elephant with thorns
In its flinching mouth? Rather than scream, for the ensuing loss, stream the forced gate of ivory
Extract a hypocenter shortly after the test, with accumulated radioisotopes inscribed in our teeth and horned whites of our eyes.