“There is no springtime on Venus, nor
any other season—no seasons in hell!”
- Allan Treiman
Who named Venus the planet
of love? Yes, it’s bright, blinding
as lust’s hot passion. Year round
the forecast reads a balmy 870
degrees, blistering enough to melt
metal—lead, bismuth—not us,
though (human bodies yearn, burn
in an untold heat). But Pluto’s spring
is a lukewarm love like no other: frozen
atmosphere stops falling out of sky
as decades of vernal devotion endure
death and dwarfhood. Its heavy glacial
heart pulls ours off kilter, so no one
melts together or dissolves into cloud.
