There will be a moment where you sit and feel the air move past you,

where you are aware of the night in motion,

when life is not imagined.

The ongoing humour, meetings and acquaintances,

fleeting cups of coffee and the odd hiatus.

None of it happens until the most liquid pull of gravity,

in mind and strength,

arrives to the point where a religion is not so far away.

These are shibboleths culminating as a material breeze,

atomised from the acceleration of orbit.

You hold on with,

although accomplished sea legs,

every now and then

experiencing a green and biley tummy.

Plasma – you are in it.

You are it.

And it sears like opera,

climbing matter in a baroque of scale.

Air is jelly, you swim in its void

until the magnet tumbles you to a verdant,

sepia rose

interlacing the wisteria of a high-walled garden;

the lucid exactitude of a G&T;

and a mint-green upright piano.

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