Rain interchangeable with the walls it falls against alphabetless like a neon ring above an extincted window showcasing something formerly fabulous now kinda poignantly disappeared. I guess that means we're back in Seaside (since we must begin somewhere) and it's probably summer but can't be as long ago as the date you suggest since I wouldn't have been born, or quietly gagging at the sentence re: photographs being "fairly far removed" from sculpture anyway belied by a euthanized block of period tract housing the loading dock's pair of refrigerated trucks the guileless curbs below the blandishing panes of all those plate windows the corrugated doors rolled shut against a statement the curves of the cars as they throw back their throats to the light the furtive things people do in the night (or don't do) bluely compiled screen by screen in perfervid surveillance I just want to say yes to you, yes and watch this.
Last week Mars suddenly got a lot closer.
It used to be the place we'd throw out
as impossible, utterly unreachable, so red
and foreign and sere. Not anymore.
And I'm trying to figure out why watching
the panorama makes something in the hot core
of me crumple like a swig-emptied can,
intoxicating though it may be, vibrant
with out-of-this-world color like the whole thing's
a sand painting, a dimensional mandala
some galactic monk took her sweet time pouring
freehand, blowing on it between sips of her tea,
ruffling up the most dramatic of its rumpled crests.
It's bluer than I thought, attained. Like most things
I wish we could take back.