oh, shirtsleeve love,
tug you over my wrists,
wrap you between warm fingers,
hold me tight and crowded on the T,
fold you inside-out for Spring,
pulled back gentle for the sun-
pastel, upside down
I ache
to brush sand and soil
from your creases and seams
as often as we move about-
to wear you soaking in the shower,
to run you through the wash
in new ways each time.
I will not bury you in rage.
I do not fear stains
the way I fear
the joy of being dug up.
shirtsleeve love,
will you follow me to the sea?
Cling to my skin, soaked, heavy,
paled by salt?
Stand shivering in the wind,
or then tucked away-
dried but never the same?
PLUTO BLOOMING 