Tangent (For the Most Beautiful)
Here's one set, three pieces of information
That never cross the line, but press their mouths to
The golden surface:
A minor planet, flung beyond the reaches of
oceans and death. Eris, and the mad circling Dysnomia,
in that rock-cratered black, pitched into a pantheon.
You can imagine her sneering, so Mercury, its grey eye worshiping the sun,
dynamo pressed heart-attack into burnt-coil magnetic lines until it locks,
and Venus' asphyxiating golden halo, they are invited? Warrior Mars' peroxide dust,
anathema and iron whirling together, howling at a trace atmospheric veneer
between glory and void?
And derivatives, from cor, cordis:
You feel that they brush against heart, as strangers in rain-slick overcoats,
torrent in a city on this planet (exiled too from the gods), touching once and
hurtling off into that glitter of metal and incandescence,
discord in our frenzied exclusion.