PLUTO'S SHADOWY MOON

          It's not called Charon 
          for nothing: I've paid my fare
          with scattered coins of

          my own frozen blood.
          For nature here, too, is cruel:
          the methane rains sliced

          my flesh, and gilt-winged
          raptors have eaten my eyes,
          but my blind sockets

          bloom hyacinths of
          ice. The cool-skinned natives are
          surprisingly kind:

          their silicate hands
          have soothed my wounds into scars
          smooth as jewels. They've

          filled my skull's fragile
          chalice with winy dreams of
          deities unseen

          and grim myths that make
          gods of men. Loins anointed,
          I await the brave,

          moon-chaste sibyl who
          will ferry my soul across
          the stars' stygian void.

			- Thomas Zimmerman


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