Pluto

The stars are slowing just enough

for me to see between them.

Space dust litters the path

from roaring giant to galactic pebble.

I can’t breathe, but I don’t need to.

For once, I don’t need anything but to be

here. There’s no fear of Saturn

slicing me through, or drowning

in Jupiter’s storm. Mercury is a playful killer.

Pluto is cold and dark like a stone.

I always sympathized with that one:

small, singled out, cast away—

not skipping over space but plummeting

down. We don’t all have the geometry

for flight, my friend. Some of us burn

like ice. But nothing stays, not the Earth

or solar rays burning like magnesium.

Not terror, or pain, or disdain for being born

this way. We all crumble and fold

like collapsing stars, consuming all

that we are until we only have what is.

The system persists, scattering heat and light.

And we find new constellations in the night.