This spins. Worlds revolve, changing, the shape of every familiarity, metamorphosing into vagabond extensions that stretch across open ground and mingle with those cast from strangers. A walk is sex, the intimate blend of faces and torsos, a shadow’s reach for connection when minds are unaware. The blend of he at the bus stop awaiting his ride away and this one over here, standing tall while on his cell phone chatting with the sky. They coalesce in an unknown dance of fevered intensity, and then she merges, her skirt caught in a brief wind that tickles the others by flirting with their backs before her head disappears in their joined midsections, a Bacchanalian play here in the open of late afternoon for the world to see. And yet, no light or darkness connects these two, their distance and longing not unconscious, but just as chance. Limbs aching with need for the same sun to fall and bleed their inner desires, their hands cannot touch even in accidental light. She calls to him from a concave dark, her solitude pinched by the lens of words and glowing screens, and he lays in night struck by the prism of her demands for understanding, absorbing the full color of her soul’s shape as if that sun rose quite suddenly above them, drew them together, and sent limbs and hearts and minds into a lustful tangle. Only this isn’t happenstance, and night’s folly and day’s gambit are willed into breathless embrace by a fate seized by strong hands and forced by the flexed muscles of determination to choke the circumstance of their isolation, bending it into open, spilled rays of possibility. The unwashed can stumble through their solar dispatch and grip one another in entropic waywardness. These souls disavow the physics of alone, answering songs from the low drone of longing with their own melodic promise of soon. Yes, soon. A dance. A play in the light. An embrace in the dark.