Here's one set, three pieces of information

That never cross the line, but press their mouths to

The golden surface:

Ti kallisti.

A minor planet, flung beyond the reaches of

oceans and death. Eris, and the mad circling Dysnomia,

in that rock-cratered black, pitched into a pantheon.

You can imagine her sneering, so Mercury, its grey eye worshiping the sun,

dynamo pressed heart-attack into burnt-coil magnetic lines until it locks,

and Venus' asphyxiating golden halo, they are invited? Warrior Mars' peroxide dust,

anathema and iron whirling together, howling at a trace atmospheric veneer

between glory and void?

And derivatives, from cor, cordis:

You feel that they brush against heart, as strangers in rain-slick overcoats,

torrent in a city on this planet (exiled too from the gods), touching once and

hurtling off into that glitter of metal and incandescence,

discord in our frenzied exclusion.