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SUNRISE: January 2, 2018

From Johann Daniel Mylius’s Philosophia Reformata, 1622.

Born without distinction & alone as was proper, emptied, the insides of your emptiness all polished & shining
Even having shared an egg conserving a certain apparent boundary
Human pelts meow like Conrad said
Dividing a truth from its advertisement
Or your constellation from the frothing lip of the beer
Brans & ryes, seriously any or all the old ways, all the exhausted weights & measures
Intoxicants like air & light a silvery effluent that hardens into frost on uncollected garbage
Alien machinery laying down the wheat
A pyramid of norms
Hippocratic clouds advancing new textures of hair and draping an old coat on the rack of your shoulders, the kind of elegance that breeds distrust, excitable membranes about the seed, watchful, at once suspicious & easily seduced, going argent in slanting light
Under which I “almost automatically” postponed our plans
The automatism of marrying while simultaneously postponing a meeting “the old you” had long misprized for foreclosure
And, like a precious thought the passing hordes had neglected to harm
Doing all the gentle little unhurt things that could be done in growing light 

The moon is about to set; the sun has just cleared civil twilight. I’m still writing under the blue smoke of parentage. The letters I got yesterday all variously complained of infant parents, Saturn, Venus, the Sun, & Pluto all in Capricorn constellated by the setting & now just-waning moon in Cancer say that we’d hate ourselves less if we could feel we have more integrity, & that Identity may be a dance of lies & conditioning, but Character, as the fiction writers say, is action. In other words, even though our flesh parents might have failed us in twenty million ways, the task is to command the mentorship of forces bigger than they are. A brief T-square between the Sun & Moon, (Mom & Dad, and this still applies to the adopted, to orphans, and to people who hate their parents) to Uranus in Aries reminds me that the womb of the soul, or I guess James Joyce called it the smithy, is also a forge—renovation & innovation are always possible. This isn’t me preaching something necessary. It’s more like I’m reading you an invitation to a really good party.

January 2, 2018, 7:20 AM. Photo: Ariana Reines.

Ariana Reines is a poet & playwright. She astrologizes at lazyeyehaver.com.

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