day races


if you could grow peas here
in this orange dirt
but they do
and pine forests in their warm incu contains
sixty kilometer wide hive silos
and druids of ants’ workers
what I’m paid to do
harness myself draped, clamber the fuel eco plas-glas walls
thousands of feet over
the miniature cities with their
globes of fruit, tsetse fly radio sounds,
Silman this is Gab-kom Base, come on,
and you wish to ignore the data stream
fishing for miles
and the adver moons; Deimos and Phobos each
luxuriously languishing as targets
rottweilers droning in open space
and you wish to send a send to
mom or A-Sally
to tell them of love
of a gray red planet before
before it’d been terrapinformed
with ex land animals, sea group things,