Wading in the alien moonlight,
head lamp focused on silky water beams,
searching for the pale blue possibility
of a greater livability.
You go home and think of nothing.
Red-eyed headache,
what happens to you only half-concerns you,
doesn’t belong to you anyway.
Sure when you move, or start a relationship,
there are moments that feel like beginnings and ends,
but you- garden nymph with all your clothes on-
surely know better.
You’ve never felt the same breakthrough twice,
but you know that velvet blue so damn well.
When asked to repeat yourself, you shout.
In exposure, in existential terror or carelessness.
In calm dread, you make an irritating phenomena
of getting in and out of the shower.
It’s the weather.
I don’t do well with the heat.
After all this,
there is to
matter, a natural thing,
a continuous present
you keep it in your pocket,
confront it in peace, or drastically all at once,
for the bland, sharp presence of emotions,
all crumpled up.
PLUTO BLOOMING 