Imagine:

the conscripting word

that camped in the squalor

of his fathom-moaned, unapproachable

heaven

goes on warring

in time.

Imagine:

even now

he does not repent of

his oath, even

now, he stammers back, unwitnessed, to his

resurrected throne.

Imagine:

the murdered ones,

cursed and radiant below him,

usher the knives

of their humbled, birth-marked silence, deep

into the alleyways

of his mouth.

Imagine:

I speak this to you,

from the evening of the first day,

undyingly,

along the short, human fuse

of resistance.