It's in here - this dark cavity of my palm, where invisible Venus is suspended in a perceptive night. Wrapped in skin. Not her own, but her own too sits closer to her sobs, her heart-throbs. Among us, peaking in, we have weapons of earthly materials, ready to dash towards the next bellow from a God.
We seek new platforms, beyond the skin that wrap us in what we call the night sky. Beyond the Vantablack fabric laden with stars we could make out the skin of God's palm. If only divinity - when it showed up - wasn't directly nailed to the first cross. I have Venuses hidden in my corners, until morning: dancing mourners.