From The Bloody Planet
Dust everywhere: specks whirling over Olympus Mons,
through Valles Marineris, the planet as a pipe organ
filled with sand grains. Imagine the dead here
as bits of dust, as old hymns. From the surface, the sky looks like pallets of lion skins, salt still between
each hide, as if the tanner was suddenly called away.
Sand laps the yellow edge, the dead marching. Where
is the redness? Who calls these armies? Swirl. Swirl. The flutter of fur, still bloody, a false pulse
inside storms of carbon dioxide. Red comes
only with distance. Dust cuts messages
through the Borealis basin that could be canals or optical illusions. The core churns out of tune. Volcanoes
roar, quiet. Sand, sand, sand, the discomfort
of 5/4 time. Rocks, only for a while, can be alive.
See this, machine of humanity: dust only multiplies. You are marching. You are a lion. You are
the bloody planet. You are painted red, a shrieking mouth.