Molten turmoil deep beneath.
Collisions are occurring
by the hundreds
of hydrogen atoms.
They’re forced upwards in turbulent, somersaulting convection currents to the surface of the sun, and the better part of them, their collective soul, is thrown out into the great vacuum, which on Earth we call the heavens, seeming far more densely peopled with celestial bodies than is proper.
Like Villiers Street viewed from the Strand on a Saturday evening at 10.45.
The squeezed perspective, the diminishing visual field crushing bodies together.
And they form currents, oozing into Heaven, circling the dance floors, colliding at the bar, staggering along the platform of Charing Cross, eddying two steps from the homeless woman and her proffered, almost-empty cup next to the shut-up flower stall.
And the soul of the hydrogen, the sunlight, strikes the moon, bleaching it a skeletal white, and it’s stunned by the impact, falls helplessly towards her, tumbling downwards from above.
And it’s slowed by the thickening air.
The noise, rising above the artificially dense crowd.
And it falls lightly, like a whisper in the roar of Villiers Street, on the once-white rim of her paper cup, dyed orange by the street light.
Chewed at the edges.