(with apology to Diane Ackerman)

 

The dead thin wind of Mars

vibrates the dead thin solar panels.

In thirteen minutes we will hear

the pulse of the planet through headphones

 

They will call it a gentle breeze

but we do not feel it anywhere

There is no exposed skin here.

 

My gyres of orange sand and weakening flux

Recall another nearby path, one parallel

– a green and blue one, stuffed with life and the

things of life.

 

But alien in the black mirror, somewhere I missed the chance,

let go of atmosphere, or the expectation of atmosphere.

Maybe they will send probes and little robots,

Desperate to find some inkling of why

all my promises are gone, or crumbling and dry.