In the quiescence of space a figure swells radially from its centre, limbs loved into their joints, fiddlehead ingenue, curlicued out to sediment ring and moon. This effort of love produces a sweat, aromal motes that etherise like longing. It is the ravelling that precipitates attachment. A body secretes in the shape of the universe.
– Ask what the great conjunction is.
– What's the great conjunction?
– You tell me.
– The great conjunction is the end of the world... or the beginning.
A planet has many creations but the first is a depression that clamps in at the head, lily-like. We walk sidelong in the corridor of blunt atmosphere, waiting for the roundness of morphogenetic lot. Until our bodies undergo planetary collusion, or stake it all on love’s crossing, like stars.
– End, begin ... all the same. Big change. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. There it is!
Hope shoots flares from the middle, pelvic afflatus. We attract dust into one form, and then another. They are as numerous as spicules of thought. Slowly, the depression veers off and after our first full orbit we glimpse it on the horizon, coronal. Our accessories become signals, carapaced waves; gods with bleeding stomachs light up the sky. The amorous world renews.