qarrtsiluni

by James Brush

Gauzy cirrus wisps
burn off early with the stars;

a dust-choked noon sky
glows orange like dying leaves.

Desolate and desiccate,
burned by blistering cold,

wind-scoured deserts remember
where water used to flow.

Eroding winds pile dusty sand
in ever-shifting dunes;

in a hazy salmon dusk,
the diminished sun sets blue.

Two moons’ clear light sweeps a sky
under which only robots sleep

beneath one brilliant blue-hued
evening star on whose surface

you’ll find me—in the driveway
out to get the paper, a moment to admire

that ruddy wanderer in retrograde,
that rusty blood drop in the sky.

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James Brush (blog) lives in Austin, Texas where he teaches English in a juvenile correctional facility. His poems have appeared in various places online and in print. He published his first novel, A Place Without a Postcard, in 2003. He has been fascinated by Martian landscapes since he saw the first Viking images in the mid-1970s.