A wedding ring is the gavel bruise leveled by the tribunal. Or left by the box of knobs hurled in tumult at the pane. In a splatter of paint chips, in a scourging.

Judgment, nolo, cola, rouged--each panelist's lips purse, their eyes drag down ashen, as in turn each intones entreaties, brash resorts to tuntoward stone:

The jilted princess & her whited anemia preside, with doffed tiara: a squirming stillbirth on the bench;

The child with ears for eyes & no memory of, no talent for what that means;

The ugly one--beset by scars, by lopsidedness, mottledness, by cartilage and fat--absently paring mangoes;

The love-slaughtered, whose dulled eyes sneer--first splayed, then blued--between motions to recess;

A supine raft of cannon-fodder;

The disgraced pervert with skull shied away, who, throughout arguments, tries clicking clefts together--in sequence, vault-coerced--in hopes doctored tumblers can throw the bolt;

And the novitiate, slender & shorn, auguring the scurrilous glass, dousing as with a sieve, urgently, late of the public inquiry that tried the Great Omentum.

Squalls of bested lenience they have, is all they have to impoart, save adjournment, and a moot reading into the record of default handed down.