The Basenji sent the message in her own Morse code.
It went into the plasma, like a wireless wave
Straight to our ether-tuned antennae,
Back to our nebulae of dust electric, the universal
Mind, the one we are thinking.
We run through this groove every year,
Put blue peacocks on the branches, imagine
Reverie from memory only. But the do not open
Until the apocalypse box is not even hidden
Under the tree. We can think differently.
Solar communion is the new black.
The sun will now answer any questions we have
Or, rather, step out of the way, of us already knowing.
We see that horizon, as it sets in incandescence,
The universal mind conversing with itself.
The lid is off the shadows. The Arkestra plays the gospel
Of Saturn, not just to us anymore, but to the stars
As we braid like Celtic knots the vibrational grammar
Of our ascending consciousness. The game is the same
But the bubble popped like soap suds in winter.
