Plutonian Sympathy

In loping circles, orbiting distantly
here, I am alone most
often in observation
of all of you, together
ticking like watches and clocks, so synchronous
your system of celestial bodies, laughing
over dinner and waltzing through a grand scheme
while lights twinkle like dying stars
in your eyes, intimate reflections
cast shadowy freckles on your lovers’ cheeks
as you spin and sway, willing wisps of scarf-silk smoke
to follow then settle on the floor below
and you’re laughing, laughing
at a joke I long to hear
but can never quite make out
and am not sure I’m privy to, even now.


Dear Rose, or a Poem About Happiness and a Little Bit Relief.

Dear Rose,

Depression didn’t win today
and yes, I know
you’d call that phrasing cliché,
but you left your house
and enjoyed it.

You assembled a shelf for shoes
and Nick’s shoes
and any shoes, really.
You cleaned your apartment
upgraded your phone
signed on a new client
and made calls with confidence.

You’re close to tears
well, close to welling up-
we both know you don’t cry much,
but these waterworks are joyous
because this is rare for you, I know
and your brain is saying
“This too shall pass, remember that”
and you’re telling your brain to fuck off
because that’s depression talk
and you’re going to ignore it
for today, triumphant
shining like a sunbeam from your
toothpaste-spackle-free mirrors
and freshly disinfected countertops.

Remember that this is possible.