At the beginning, tickling poor fancy, we were like a freckle on the face of the sun. ‘Like’, he told us, because we were not He, we were His awareness of a face to come. Did we dare to know our face, to call the sun God? To myself, I speak of Brooke Shields and shielding and screening and wearing none, called before the sun that is the Father and the Husband that is a now known God. I preen concertedly over what hieros gamos requires: total presentism, the very notion of rear view, time’s view, en garde. Watching maiden of consecration, veil taking on the waves at morrow, so to wonder: should there really be such hierarchy between Shepherd and Stars. Shall we not all to horizons follow. Plenty everywhere, and everywhere a line drawn, cleaving singulars not lonely per se but lone, for that is the way of fuerza, concentrated, a body and woman bent over a shape, a number, of movement within One.
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