I can romanticize anything-
I. cigarette smoke on my fingertips, easily
it remembers you under the lamplight
II. later, shards of glass (the size of ants)
where your bare feet held the floor
-by a reliable mechanism,
it stumbles on a slow idea, settles
heavy at the back of my eyes.
Staring down the longest caverns of the sun
thinking I have so much left to give
to a valley where the dust is still alive;
where the driveway and the foyer swell
at the will of sapid lilacs
(they bloomed with you in mind).
Pluto is the depth of wanting,
the slowest, secret burn of revolution
two and a half centuries in transformation;
remember, reliability does not need
your brilliant burning rage! Still...
our glaring bodies burn reliably all the same.