What keeps your hands tucked into their sleeves,
wedged beneath your knees
when you’re sitting cold on the tile?
What keeps your eyes open,
sagging and bloodshot,
when your bones ache?
What presses your lips
to the saxophone
when your music is slipping?
What slides between the pages
of your books
when you doubt the words’ tonic?
What breaks you into smile
in the passenger seat
when your mind is on the future?
What digs out your voice
to hum to those songs, your hands to drum
when you are weary?
love, love, love
PLUTO BLOOMING 