Pluto

I don't know what to call it anymore
or the unskillful  and uneasy pronunciation
of the word figment
As if that had a subject
The furniture is reflected in the window
and the window is a bad toy
for the unconscious.  Its transparent faces
broken stars and horrible collisions
with things that do not believe a solid
could be so clear.
I get that same feeling
when I look at you
but you were not suppose to be here
not now anyway.  I like it how
we now live. That this here is home.
That things bring us surprise
or anger or contemplation
I like it how you and I think
we think no matter how bad we feel
it is more or more or less
 like a distant rock of ice
whose name only recently has
been taken off the list of planets.