always sure of life on Mars
reading into lines carved into red face
messages of friendliness and welcome
tracing them, a wavering pen,
the intelligence that made them
flooding, mimesis, through me,
gladly constructed
the capsule
that would
take me
there
and
bang
oh
how
it
flew
now, amid the sands
water’s distant memory a noise in the wind
life but shadows cast by Phobos and Deimos
slowly dry to become sand, become wind,
pondering the mistake
wondering who made it
and wondering why
–
wandering sands
digging fresh canals
scratching red death
fading like those
whose long abandoned craft
litter the sand
about mine