i wept when i saw Mercury,
striding ‘cross a blazing face of god —
a peppercorn in a furnace
for an instant blotting out just this much light
in its valiant attempt to eclipse;
so small, this minuscule bearing,
rolling in its calculated race through the vastness of not,
its path either straight, or elliptical, or fractally florid, depending on your frame of reference.
mine is framed by this thin bezel around that limned piece of glass behind which scant few milliwatts tickle pixels, sure enough in their representation of this millions-mile distant dance to gut me with this impact,
my viscera made molten by transit.

This moment’s significance is not equivalent to that of the famous shimmering dot, both blue and pale, but rather that Mercury was ladled from the same simmering pot as the Earth, myself, and the roiling star it now dances by,
minutely eclipsing consecutive discs of that stellar skin’s writhing across all spectra.

More to the point, perhaps, as starstuff shaped in place around the nascent Sun, we were raised in the same nursery.
Is the child held closest thus elevated most?
Does the proximal Hermes earn the gift of first sips at the solar wind with nothing twixt to cast shadow or otherwise occlude one iota of scintillating glory?

I wonder what Homer would think, that what was once the domain of those madness-adjacent initiates privy to the Mystery, breathing deep of scented smoke, is now available to anyone whose capital or credit stretches to encompass a handheld sculpture of modern materials scraped from mountains now left barren like empty sockets in the jaw of earth.

‘Transit’ by Clay Roper

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