The air is curdled and afraid, stinging in my throat.
I fall asleep, return to fantasy that once was truth,
tumble to the world where Moorcock’s misplaced
timeships rest.
Their flickering uncertainty illuminates the overgrowing vines,
and they bleed their forlorn magic to the earth,
creating lesser mammals that frolic for a moment
in a second dawn.
Inconstant light will update fortnightly from today. This has little to do with Mars. It is a consequence of irreversible thermodynamics, evolution beyond the axolotl, and causation.
With strong and weak nuclear forces,
you might try to bind every atom of your being,
to neither dissipate nor propagate. To build a bulwark
against living’s effervescence, you might try.
The Martian Princess of Glass visits Wollongong, her hometown.
The fans that line the streets wave mirrors and Windex™,
she smiles all blue and chromed,
removes reflective lenses
with flashes sunborne from reflective eyes.
I remember when she was just the Martian
down the street.
How I planned to meet her,
how every day I practiced her name—
Deija, ¤≈ℑξ ϖ¿ in Martian, hard to pronounce.
